


Reading Circle Summons

by JoyAndOtherStories



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Angel and Demon True Forms (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Canon, Summoning, Transphobia, aziraphale gets summoned, but by accident, offscreen, or at least essences, pining with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28797534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoyAndOtherStories/pseuds/JoyAndOtherStories
Summary: I had wanted for a while to do a companion fic to Slumber Party Summons where Crowley gets Summoned by older women instead of teenage girls, but hadn’t quite been able to make it work. Then, @argentconflagration put out a prompt, basically: What if Crowley and Aziraphale were getting semi-kinky in an ethereal sense, mingling their essences together as you do, and someone happened to Summon Crowley at that point, and got Aziraphale instead because he was partly Crowley at the time?Thus this fic: AZIRAPHALE gets Summoned by a group of old ladies!Shenanigans and relationship assistance ensue.(Note that this fic neither precedes nor follows Slumber Party Summons, and you can read either without the other; it’s a companion in concept only.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 154
Kudos: 148
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [argentconflagration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/argentconflagration/gifts).



**Chapter 1: Prologue**

“For science?” Crowley said, endearingly.

Crowley’s default state was endearing, as far as Aziraphale was concerned, but he could hardly tell the dear fellow that; it would annoy him.

“I really don’t think this qualifies as science,” he objected instead.

“’Course it does,” Crowley insisted. “It’s an experiment. Nobody’s ever done it before. Plus, there could be an explosion.”

“There is certainly _not_ going to be an explosion in my bookshop,” said Aziraphale firmly. “And I’m quite certain that science is more than explosions. There’s…there’s documentation. And…independent observation. I don’t suppose you’re planning on taking notes while we mingle our metaphysical essences?”

“Euurgh,” Crowley grimaced. “Ehh…we can take notes after, if you want.”

“Oh, for Heav—someone’s sake, Crowley, the notes aren’t important. What I’m concerned about is whether this is safe.”

Crowley picked up a wine bottle, frowned at it, and set it back down. They’d both sobered up a few minutes ago when they realized they might be serious about this idea that they’d drunkenly blundered into.

“Look, Aziraphale,” said Crowley, more earnestly. “Four weeks ago, we traded our essences. Or our corporations, whichever. And it was fine. No side effects, no explosions—nothing more than a little tingle.”

“Yes, I _know_ , Crowley. But _trading_ essences is one thing; _mingling_ them is a different question.”

“Is it, though?” Crowley asked. “I mean, if you think about it, our essences must’ve…uh…come in contact…when we were…trading.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, trying to keep his focus on the conversation and not the idea of his…essence…coming into contact with Crowley’s, “I…I suppose that’s true.”

“So,” said Crowley, pressing his advantage, “It’ll be perfectly safe. We can start small. A”—he waved an arm—“a fingertip, or something.”

Aziraphale sighed. This conversation would be easier if he didn’t have…ulterior motives. The truth was that he was increasingly desperate for any sort of…mingling…with Crowley, which was not at all conducive to an objective discussion of risk versus safety.

On the other hand, Crowley was probably correct that a tiny bit of…essence contact…would be safe.

“It’s like you said,” Crowley continued into Aziraphale’s hesitation, “we don’t know if our sides—our former sides—might…nnng…come for us again. But if they do, we need to be ready, and this might be a way to protect ourselves against whatever they throw at us.”

“Did I say that?” Aziraphale stalled. “I thought it was you.”

“Was it?” asked Crowley, cocking his head. “I don’t remember. We were drunk. Anyway, the point stands. This isn’t just some wild idea for fun; this is for _safety_.”

Aziraphale looked at him uncertainly for a few more seconds. “Oh, very well,” he said sniffily. “Just a fingertip, though.”

“Errr—right,” said Crowley, looking about the room. “Maybe—stand over there?”

“Ah—yes. Capital.”

They made their way to a bit of open floor space in the back room, Aziraphale hoping they didn’t look like young humans about to attempt their first dance together. This was _Crowley_ , for Heav—goodness’ sake; he’d known him for 6000 years. He could certainly stand in his general vicinity and touch a fingertip without blushing.

“Right,” said Crowley again, shifting his shoulders, and held up one hand.

“Quite,” said Aziraphale, tugging at his waistcoat with one hand and holding up the other.

And they touched their forefingers together, gently, and oh, _bother_ , why was it that this seemed more intimate than a full embrace would have been? Aziraphale found that he couldn’t meet Crowley’s gaze, and trained his eyes instead on their fingers.

In some sort of metaphysical dimension, the tiniest bit of his essence coiled around the tiniest curl of Crowley’s.

Nothing happened.

Well, not _entirely_ nothing—he could sense, just a bit, hints of Crowley—like music several rooms away, colors at the corner of his eye, the faintest aromas in a well-aged wine’s bouquet.

“So, no explosions so far,” said the physical version of Crowley, in a tone that was probably meant to be cheeky, but came out rather hushed.

“Quite right,” said Aziraphale, and his tone was meant to be bracing but instead came out breathy.

“Do you want to try mor—”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said without thought. He swallowed. “I mean, yes; this does seem to be—ah—safe—so I do think we could…proceed.”

“All right, then.” Crowley’s voice was oddly…throaty. He shifted his hand, and Aziraphale matched him so that they stood with their hands lightly clasped between them, which, Aziraphale reminded himself, was nothing different from what they’d done already, last month, when they traded corporations. Nothing to be flustered about.

His corporation’s heart was pounding distressingly. Well, _not_ distressingly—it was _like_ distress, only…pleasant.

“Ready?” whispered Crowley. Aziraphale looked up into his eyes, which were wide and…not frightened, exactly—vulnerable?

Aziraphale nodded, not trusting his own voice anymore.

An outside observer—well, a human one, anyway, without any sort of metaphysical perception abilities—would presumably have seen a plump man in a waistcoat and soft cardigan facing a taller, lean man wearing a good deal of black, both standing oddly still with their right hands loosely clasped between them at shoulder height.

This hypothetical human observer could not have been blamed for thinking that these two figures were, in fact, located in the bookshop backroom where they appeared to be standing. Aziraphale himself wasn’t precisely sure where they were actually located. Metaphysical space was very confusing, after all.

He forgot about trying to understand it as soon as Crowley’s…metaphysical form…began to wind around his.

Crowley’s essence was at first snakelike, a twisting smoky serpent, sparkling star-like on the surface and glowing red somewhere deep within, like coals well-hidden but potent. Aziraphale wondered what his own essence looked like to Crowley—dusty and slow-moving and soft, probably—and then with an indescribable twist they moved deeper into each other and he stopped wondering. This layer of Crowley was lush and verdant, like the garden where they’d met, like the garden Crowley grew in his flat—complete with the anxiety—oh! He could feel Crowley’s emotions. The feeling slipped away; Crowley’s essence was fast-moving and ever-shifting like quicksilver, and now Aziraphale found music, like a symphony—well, _not_ like a symphony, more like the kind of modern performance Crowley liked, but tuneful—and there were layers here; Aziraphale could delve into music for all moods and times, shifting around him like a kaleidoscope, like Crowley’s laughter—and oh _my_ , there were memories—he couldn’t _quite_ grasp them, not yet, but he could feel them, snatches of—a wall and greenery and a touch of flame and possibly a white wing—was Crowley thinking of Eden as well?

And then—

With no warning—

Crowley was gone.

Or rather, _everything_ was gone. Aziraphale was rushing through nothing, his body—his essence?—held vice-like by…by nothing—

Until he thudded into _something_ —he couldn’t see it, but it was a very solid something.


	2. Dark Cravings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through the dimness loomed the faces of five women, none of whom were Crowley, and all of whom looked at least as shocked to see him as he was to see them.  
> “Ah—hello,” he said, adjusting his bowtie, then, remembering proper angelic protocol, “Don’t be afraid.” (Of course, he wasn’t a proper angel anymore, at least not by Heaven’s standards, but he wasn’t rude.)  
> “What the Hell,” said one of them.

**Chapter 2: Dark Cravings**

_Thick black smoke appeared from nowhere, swirling to fill the pentagram. It swirled faster and faster, dizzyingly fast, until it coalesced in the center of the star, forming a solid shape. Rowena couldn’t stop herself from gasping. The form was a man, completely nude, swarthy-skinned, deeply muscled, with long black hair that hung into his eyes and rippled past his broad shoulders._

_The man—demon, Rowena reminded herself—lifted a powerful-looking hand to push its hair from its face. It opened eyes that were revealed to be completely coal-black. For a moment she thought the chiseled face looked tired, even haunted, but that must have been her imagination. It fixed those inhuman eyes on her, and its mouth curled in contempt. It took two menacing paces forward and placed its hands solidly on the nearly-invisible wall of the pentagram. Rowena clenched her fists at her sides and forced herself to stand her ground._

_“Who dares,” it said, in a deep, rich rumble of a voice that seemed to shake the floor, “to Summon the demon Dhakh-Singh?”_

* * *

Aziraphale braced his hands against whatever he’d slammed into, barely stopping himself from tumbling to the ground. Wherever he was, his corporation had apparently come with him—that was good—or was it? In any case, his body was automatically righting itself, planting his feet, smoothing down his waistcoat, as his mind became aware of certain key facts:

First, he was alone. Where was Crowley?

Second, he was trapped. Whatever he’d hit apparently enclosed him completely.

Third, his shoulder hurt rather considerably from his…landing, or whatever it should be called.

And fourth, wherever he was, it was neither Heaven nor Hell. That had been his first, very alarmed, speculation—that his and Crowley’s experimentation with their essences had somehow caught the attention of one—or both—of their former domains. But he’d been to both of those places, very recently, and this was far too dim and cluttered for Heaven and far too warm and homely for Hell. Besides that, it had a very solid, Earthly feel to it, and possibly a hint of lavender incense that would have been utterly out of place in either the sterility of Heaven or the cloying miasma of Hell.

He took a breath in an attempt to quell the anxiety expanding unpleasantly in his chest, and looked around to take stock of his surroundings.

Through the dimness loomed the faces of five women, none of whom were Crowley, and all of whom looked at least as shocked to see him as he was to see them.

“Ah—hello,” he said, adjusting his bowtie, then, remembering proper angelic protocol, “Don’t be afraid.” (Of course, he _wasn’t_ a proper angel anymore, at least not by Heaven’s standards, but he wasn’t _rude_.)

“What the _Hell_ ,” said one of them.

She was a white woman shorter than Aziraphale, with unruly mostly-white hair pulled back haphazardly by a headband.

Another one let out a nervous giggle. “Literally.” She was Black, around Aziraphale’s height and size, with very short hair that was colored blonde.

“I’m afraid not,” Aziraphale said, trying not to visibly panic. _Where was Crowley_ , and was he all right? “I’m not associated with Hell at all.”

“That’s—that’s a demon?” a third woman said, reaching a hand protectively toward the woman who’d laughed nervously.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said a fourth. “We can’t have actually summoned a demon.”

“Well, he’s not a State Farm agent,” snapped the fifth one, who had an American accent.

“I beg your pardon,” said Aziraphale, more loudly, still trying to tamp down the panic that was stubbornly rising despite his efforts, “I am certainly _not_ a demon.”

“He can’t be a demon, because demons don’t exist,” said the fourth one, the skeptical one, a woman of Indian ethnicity both taller and a few sizes wider than Aziraphale, with short multicolored hair that pointed in all directions.

“Ah, well, I’m afraid that’s not accurate either,” said Aziraphale apologetically. “Demons do exist, although I am not one of them.”

“Um,” said the American lady, “I think we’re going to have to suspend disbelief for a bit, here, since whatever he is, he definitely just appeared out of nowhere in your living room, Cindy.” She indicated the first woman who’d spoken, the short one with flyaway white hair. Cindy, then.

“Ah, Miss Cindy,” said Aziraphale, working hard to keep his voice steady. “I do apologize for the intrusion. I assure you, I had no intention of coming here at all.”

“Huh,” said Cindy, sounding a bit strangled. She took off her headband and put it back on, which did nothing to tame her hair.

This wasn’t exactly helpful. Aziraphale turned back to the woman who had mentioned suspension of disbelief. “Miss—ah—”

“Eileen,” she supplied. She was Chinese-American, with medium brown skin and straight black hair well-threaded with silver. “But do _not_ call me _Miss_ Eileen. I was Miss Eileen to my students for 30 years, and I’m retired now.”

“Eileen,” Aziraphale repeated ( _why_ could he not calm himself?). “How—if you know—how _did_ I get here, exactly?”

She looked around the room. Nobody else appeared eager to explain. She shrugged uncomfortably.

“Well, we didn’t expect anything to happen, but—well, it’s a long story, but we made a pentagram and…said a Summoning spell—that we definitely didn’t think would do anything!” she hastened to add. “But, uh, the spell was supposed to Summon the demon Crowley. Is…that you?”

“No,” Aziraphale said automatically, then—“Oh!” He clapped a hand to his forehead as the realization hit him that the panic he was unable to calm wasn’t _his_ (well, mostly not his)—it was _Crowley’s_. Part of Crowley was still with him.

He reached out automatically to soothe him; he couldn’t bear to see Crowley hurt or frightened, not these days—well, he never had been able to bear that, but these days he could do something about it.

The panicking part of him that was actually Crowley seemed to freeze in alarm and confusion.

 _It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right_ , he thought as intensely as he could, ignoring the fact that he had no idea of whether that was at all accurate. Then, realizing that Crowley probably couldn’t hear his thoughts any more than he could hear Crowley’s, he did his best to…well, convey feelings of all-right-ness in the direction of the panic. He tried to mentally—or perhaps _metaphysically_ was the correct term—wrap Crowley’s alarmed essence in feelings of comfort.

Oh dear. He badly wished he could wrap the physical Crowley up in a very similar way.

In any event, Crowley began to calm. So did Aziraphale.

“Are you alright there?” asked Eileen, cautiously.

“Ah—yes, rather better; thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale replied. “As I was saying, I’m not the demon Crowley. I’m not a demon at all, in fact. I’m an angel.”

Several dubious eyebrows shot up.

“I bet you say that to everyone who Summons you,” said Cindy, crossing her arms.

“Trying to trick them into trusting you,” nodded one of the ones whom Aziraphale hadn’t identified yet, though he remembered her, earlier, reaching protectively toward the woman to her right.

“No,” said Aziraphale firmly, continuing to send calming feelings toward Crowley, “I’ve never been Summoned before at all, because I’m _not_ a demon; I’m an _angel_. My name is Aziraphale. It’s lovely to meet all of you, but—”

“If you’re not a demon, then how did we Summon you with a spell that Summons demons?” demanded the skeptical one with multicolored hair. “Apparently,” she muttered parenthetically.

“Well, ah—” Aziraphale tilted his eyebrows at her inquiringly.

She rolled her eyes. “Parveen.”

“Well, Parveen,” Aziraphale said, “I do have a theory about that, but I’m afraid it’s a bit complicated. Crowley and I—”

“Wait, do you know the demon Crowley?” interrupted the protective woman. She was white, tall and thin with dark hair. “Lydia,” she added before he could ask. “And this is Vanessa.” She indicated the Black woman beside her with short blond hair, who still looked nervous but smiled politely.

Aziraphale hesitated, feeling the flicker of a very old and very dishonest impulse, deep in the back of his mind, reminding him that he must not admit to knowing Crowley, that he must deny his deepest friendship.

He told it to bugger off.

“Yes,” he said, feeling his mouth curve into a smile. “I do know the demon Crowley. We’re friends. Best friends, in fact.” Oh, that felt _lovely_.

“Wait, love”—Parveen’s skepticism had intensified again—“you’re saying you’re an angel who hangs around with demons?”

“Certainly not,” Aziraphale replied. “Only with Crowley.” Who, he noted, was beginning to vibrate with anxiety again.

“Look,” said Eileen, tossing back her black-and-silver hair, “it probably doesn’t matter who or what he is. The question is, what are we going to do with him?”

“It’s really very simple,” Aziraphale said, trying to be patient. “To let me out, all you have to do is put out one of the candles. Then the pentagram will be gone, and I can leave.”

“Nope!”

“No no no!”

“Absolutely not, love.”

Cindy glared fiercely enough that he thought her white hair might begin crackling. “Anyone knows better than to let a demon out of a pentagram.”

“That’s when they get you,” said Lydia, standing closer to Vanessa.

“But I’m _not_ a demon.” Aziraphale was dreadfully tired of explaining this. “I’m an angel. You can trust an angel.”

Several of them scoffed.

“Angels are definitely worse,” said Lydia. “We know about Sodom and Gomorrah.” She glowered at him.

“Well—yes—I’m sorry to say that was an acquaintance of mine, but I never approved of—”

“All those kids dead in Egypt,” added Parveen.

“Ah—well, technically that _wasn’t_ an angel; Death is an independent—”

“Mary got _pregnant_ ,” Eileen said, crossing her arms.

“She _did_ agree to that. And besides, Gabriel isn’t—”

“Zechariah lost his voice for nine months.” This was from Vanessa.

“That was also Gabriel, and I’d certainly be the first to concede that he has…certain anger management difficulties, but—”

“All that crap Castiel and what’s-their-names got up to,” said Eileen severely.

“I don’t think I’m familiar with—”

“The Mothman Prophecies!”

“Those are _highly_ inaccurate—”

“Raiders of the Lost Ark!”

“That—sorry, the what?”

Nobody clarified.

“Anyway, no,” Cindy summarized.

Aziraphale looked around at them in frustration, trying to marshal another argument. Oh dear; he wished Crowley were here to help him think this through.

“Go on, then,” said Lydia before he came up with anything. “Tell us how we got you instead of your demon friend.” She sat on a couch and gave Vanessa’s hand a little tug to join her. The other three (Eileen, Cindy, and Parveen, Aziraphale recited) remained standing, radiating suspicion.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “Crowley and I were conducting an experiment. We were attempting to…mingle our essences.”

“Mingle your essences?” said Cindy, raising oddly suggestive eyebrows. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

Aziraphale blinked at her. “I…rather doubt that the children are speaking about this at all.”

Lydia snorted.

Aziraphale would have continued his explanation, but Crowley’s anxiety was, by now, spiraling upwards in a very worrying way. Aziraphale tried yet again to send soothing feelings toward it, but instead of calming, the anxiety spiked agitatedly.

“My dears,” said Aziraphale to the women, “I do hope it wouldn’t be a bother if I borrowed one of your mobile telephones.”

This required some negotiation, as none of the women were inclined to trust him with their telephones. He finally managed to resolve this by conveying that, if Crowley’s anxiety continued in its current trajectory, he would eventually come looking for Aziraphale and possibly do something rash in order to find him.

“And do believe me, you do not want a panicking demon roaming London,” he assured them.

There was another hitch when the telephone he was permitted to use (Vanessa’s) refused to function within the pentagram that was confining him. The women determined that there was no “signal” inside the pentagram, but they sorted this by holding the telephone up just outside the nearly-invisible wall so that he could speak in its direction.

“Very clever of you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, as Vanessa touched the telephone in the proper way to instruct it to call Crowley.

Crowley answered immediately.

“Angel?” His voice was hoarse with the kind of raw panic he almost never let show.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale tried to suppress his overwhelming relief and delight at hearing that voice, but realized after a moment that Crowley’s own relief was surging so strongly that he probably wouldn’t notice.

“Are you alright?” Crowley was demanding. “Where are you? What happened? I’m so sorry—tell me where you are; I’ll come—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupted. “I’m—I seem to be quite alright; it’s only that—well, apparently I’ve been…Summoned.”

“Summoned?” Crowley echoed blankly. “By—wait, you mean by humans? But, you can’t be Summoned. You’re an angel.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale delicately, “I…I’m _not_ , entirely, at the moment, you know.”

He could feel Crowley sorting this out (literally feel, since part of Crowley was intertwined with him). “Ohh,” said Crowley after a few moments. “Ohhh—you’re—you’re partly… _me_ , right now.”

“Yes, precisely, my dear,” Aziraphale agreed. “So, when they Summoned you, they—well, they got me instead, it seems.”

“Nggggghhhh,” said Crowley, “I’m—I’m sorry, angel—ahh—” Crowley’s emotions were swirling too fast for Aziraphale to catch any of them—“but—can’t they just…let you out?”

“I’m afraid they don’t trust me,” Aziraphale fretted.

“Why the Heav—Hell—agh, something—not?”

“Well, they seem to think angels are dangerous,” Aziraphale said, indignantly. “And untrustworthy.”

Crowley was silent for a moment. “Um,” he said presently. “Well…”

“Oh, do shut up, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Are you two done yet?” demanded Lydia, standing protectively next to Vanessa, who was still patiently holding her phone as Aziraphale bent to speak into it.

“Wait,” Crowley’s voice came more loudly through the telephone. “You lot—what were you doing Summoning me anyway? Or any demon? That’s a terrible idea.”

“It was an accident,” Vanessa said quickly.

“Right,” said Crowley drily, “you drew a pentagram and said a Summoning spell _by accident_.”

“It was just a book club activity,” snapped Lydia.

“A…what?”

“Reading circle,” said Cindy firmly. “We read romances and discuss them.”

“And Eileen had this idea a year ago,” said Parveen, rolling her eyes, “that we can’t just talk about the books, we have to do something _experiential_.”

“Well, _you_ wanted us to write discussion outlines—” Eileen started—

“And this week’s book was about a demon”—Cindy cut them off, holding up a paperback entitled _Dark Cravings_ that featured an illustration of a very well-muscled man who didn’t look at all like any demon Aziraphale had seen—“so we thought we’d do a mock demon summoning.”

“It was just mucking about,” said Lydia. “Obviously we didn’t actually want a demon.”

“Well, your book circle or whatever has kidnapped my friend,” snapped Crowley, “whether you wanted to or not. So you’re going to damn well send him back.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interjected.

“Yeah, angel?”

“Suppose we call you back after a while, my dear?” If these ladies were ever going to trust him enough to let him out of the pentagram, it would not be while Crowley was shouting at them. “Please don’t be worried. I’m quite all right, and I’ll see you soon.”

“We’re hanging up now,” Lydia informed them, and did so.

Despite the fact that it had been his own suggestion, Aziraphale immediately felt a pang of deprivation at losing the connection to Crowley. He pressed his lips together, set his shoulders, and looked up at the ladies.

“I feel we haven’t met properly, my dears. Suppose we sit down and have introductions?”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Shall we also make a spot of tea?” she asked, affecting a posh accent.

“That would be delightful,” said Aziraphale, unblinkingly.

“For God’s sake,” muttered Parveen.

“I’ll make some,” said Vanessa cheerfully, patted Lydia’s hand, and headed off, apparently for a kitchen. Eileen sighed resignedly and sat in an armchair; Cindy followed suit on a couch.

“I’m not sitting with him looming over me,” Parveen stated. “Can we put a chair in there?”

It turned out that it was perfectly possible to put a chair in a pentagram, presumably because the metaphysical walls confining Aziraphale weren’t affected by Earthly details such as furniture. The chair itself was a hard wooden one, probably because Parveen was the one who selected it. Aziraphale thanked her with a beaming smile that visibly annoyed her.

Presently, they were all settled with tea (Vanessa, at least, was perfectly happy to receive an angelic smile when she handed Aziraphale his mug).

“Well,” said Aziraphale, sipping his tea properly. “As I’ve said, my name is Aziraphale. I am an angel—a principality, to be specific.”

“A what?”

“A princ—oh, never mind; I’m…ah…retired anyway.”

“Angels can retire?”

Aziraphale took another sip of tea. “Hopefully. In any case, I live in London—”

“You live in London? Not…Heaven?” Eileen asked.

“Definitely not,” said Aziraphale firmly.

“So…what, you have a flat in London with your demon boyfriend?” This was from Lydia.

“He’s…he’s not my boyfriend,” Aziraphale said, suppressing his sadness at admitting this (among other things, any surge of sadness might have alarmed Crowley had he sensed it). Several women made disbelieving noises. “But I do suppose I have a flat, yes. In my bookshop.”

“Bookshop?” echoed Vanessa. “An angel and a demon live in a bookshop in London?”

“Ah, well, Crowley does have his own flat.” Though he’d been at the bookshop nearly full-time since the events of August, something Aziraphale had tried not to call attention to, lest it frighten him off. “But yes, I do run a bookshop. An antiquarian bookshop. In Soho, specifically.”

“Retired but still working, huh?” said Cindy, with something approaching sympathy. “I’ll go next; it’s my house.” She shifted her headband and ineffectively smoothed her hair. “Cindy, retired from…several occupations, divorced, two kids, one grandson. I started the reading circle, dragged my sister into it.” She nodded to her right, where Lydia sat beside her on the couch.

“That’s me,” said Lydia. Despite the height difference, there was a family resemblance between her and Cindy, although Lydia clearly put more effort into hair care, and was dressed more crisply. She brushed sleek dark hair back from her face. “Mostly retired, still do some substitute teaching. One kid, two grandkids, one ex-husband who’s not a bad sort. And one wife.” She slipped an arm to her right, around Vanessa’s plumper waist.

Vanessa, who was wearing soft, comfortable, brightly-checked flannel, gave a wriggle that snuggled her more closely to Lydia. “Vanessa,” she smiled at Aziraphale. “No exes, just the one wife, and the daughter and the grandchildren who came with her. I’m a history teacher.”

“And writer,” Lydia put in.

“And aspiring writer,” Vanessa agreed.

Eileen was next. “You already know I’m a retired elementary school teacher. Parents are academics, moved to the States before I was born, so I grew up there. Moved back here after I retired because that’s where the family is. One ex, but he’s in the States. No kids, which will forever annoy my parents.”

Parveen ran a hand through her pointy, multicolored hair. “Retired teacher also. One husband, three kids, seven grandkids; mum’s still annoyed with me for moving to London from Birmingham thirty years ago.” She fixed Aziraphale with a disapproving look. “Are you happy yet, love? Because we really need to decide what to do with you. I’m too old for all-night slumber parties.”

“Ah—yes,” said Aziraphale, thinking guiltily of Crowley sitting up all night as well, worrying. “Shall we start at the beginning? Where did you find the spell you used to Summon me? Or, strictly speaking, to Summon Crowley?”

Cindy shifted awkwardly, sighed, and held up a book. It was softcover, glossy and yellow, and was entitled _Demon Summoning and Control for Dummies_.

“I got it off Amazon,” she said, a bit defensively, though nobody had said anything accusatory. “And like we said, it was just a bit of fun. We definitely didn’t expect to Summon an actual demon. _Or_ angel; yes, I know.”

“Well, I can certainly see why not,” Aziraphale said, glaring at the mass-produced book disdainfully. “Where is the…ah…Summoning spell section?”

Cindy handed it to him, open to a page with several lines of italicized text, certainly not English. Aziraphale pulled out his spectacles and perched them on his nose. Someone might have stifled a giggle. He ignored this and frowned at the syllables, mentally pronouncing them. He’d rather expected nonsense, but instead, they seemed…familiar.

“It’s Sumerian,” he muttered.

“Sumerians used cuneiform,” Vanessa objected.

“Well, he’s spelled it phonetically,” Aziraphale said, distractedly, “but it’s definitely Sumerian.”

“ _He_?” demanded Cindy archly. “The author is a woman.”

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, but in this instance, I believe ‘he’ is the proper pronoun.”

“Well, why shouldn’t it be Sumerian?” asked Eileen. “It says it’s supposed to be a spell used by ancient priests.”

“Ah—yes, it does _say_ that,” Aziraphale sighed. “It’s just that this is a recipe for a meat pie.”

Blank silence greeted this assertion.

“Ok,” said Parveen after some moments, “first of all, Sumerians ate meat pie?”

“Of course they did,” Aziraphale replied. “It was quite delicious. Very different flavor combinations from most modern cuisine, of course, though one can possibly still trace the influence into present-day—”

“ _Second_ ,” Parveen overrode him, “how the Hell did we summon a demon with a meat pie recipe? And _yes_ , we know you’re actually an angel—if there is such a thing—so you can stop going on about it.”

“Well, the very last line isn’t part of the recipe, although it’s hardly a _spell_ , more just a…a statement. If you translate it…ah…a bit roughly, it equates to ‘I call the demon’—and then there’s the blank space where you insert the relevant name, of course, so it’s ‘I call the demon so-and-so into this pentagram.’” That was a _very_ generous translation; the actual line was rather…coarser. “Ah…where did you find the…specific name that you used, might I ask?”

“There’s a table in one of the chapters with demon names and descriptions,” explained Cindy. “We just picked the one that sounded best.”

“She means sexiest,” muttered Lydia.

Aziraphale knew his way around a book, even if it was _Demon Summoning and Control for Dummies_. He flipped rapidly to the table, squinted at it—

Azrael, Asmodeous, Beelzebub (“possibly unhealthy obsession with flies,” “assertive managerial tactics,” “unpleasantly vindictive if cross,” “always cross”), Botis—

Ah.

 ** _Crowley_** _. Some accounts equate this name with the original serpent-tempter of Eden. Although that detail is not possible to confirm, this demon has been described as exceptionally witty and clever, and skilled in causing large-scale mayhem. Furthermore, sources have noted that Crowley may manifest in male, female, and non-binary forms, and is consistently described as distractingly alluring in any configuration. He, she, or they frequently_ —

“May I trouble you to borrow your mobile telephone once more, my dear?” Aziraphale asked Vanessa.

Crowley answered before the first ring was complete.

“Angel? You all right?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his tone sweet in a way that he knew Crowley would correctly interpret as ominous, “what do you know about a book entitled _Demon Summoning and Control for Dummies_?”

Utter silence.

“Um,” said Crowley.

“Well, my dear?”

“Uh, why—how—how come you’re asking, angel?”

Aziraphale could imagine him shifting his shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

Oh dear.

He missed him rather terribly.

“You used my Sumerian cookbook to create an imaginary Summoning spell, Crowley!”

“I…ahhherrr…well…”

“I should have known you weren’t actually interested in cuneiform translations last year,” Aziraphale huffed, wishing he could watch Crowley spread his hands as he guiltily prepared to protest—

“Well, I needed _something_!” Crowley said defensively. “And the recipes have a nice rhythm. Sound great when you chant them if you don’t know you’re talking about barley flour or leeks or whatever.”

“Wait,” Cindy ordered, one hand on her headband. “Are you saying your demon boyfriend wrote a book on demon summoning?”

“He’s not—” Aziraphale started, then stopped, tired of denying what Crowley was to him.

“Of course I didn’t write the book,” came Crowley’s voice through the telephone lines. Well, not lines—however that worked these days. Apparently Crowley hadn’t noticed Cindy calling him Aziraphale’s boyfriend, which was good, because as painful as it would have been to deny it yet again himself, it would have been considerably more painful to hear Crowley deny it. “Some human was poking around, trying to find information—summoning spells, demon names, junk like that. I just posed as a source, gave her some nonsense so she wouldn’t publish any real spells. It should have been completely harmless!”

“Well, obviously it wasn’t,” Aziraphale retorted, automatically exasperated.

Crowley should have had some sort of equally exasperated reply; that was their pattern, but—

“Angel,” he said weakly, and Aziraphale could feel him simultaneously pulsing with anxiety and crumbling with guilt, “I’m—I’m sorry, I—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupted him firmly. “My dear. Please don’t fuss; I’m _fine_.”

“You’re not fine; you’re trapped, and I don’t understand how it—how they—”

“Crowley, stop pacing and relax,” Aziraphale interrupted him again, knowing he had to do something, quickly, to soothe Crowley’s throbbing panic. Most of the time Aziraphale moved too slowly, and frequently he made rather a mess of things, but right now Crowley needed him to be clever, so he would have to be. “You’re right; the spell _was_ just nonsense. It shouldn’t have Summoned anything. We’ll just—talk it through, and, and determine what happened, and then we’ll find a way to send me back, and everything will be right as rain. Ticket—”

“ _Don’t_ say tickety-boo,” Crowley groaned, and Aziraphale smiled, feeling the demon’s anxiety tick down a few notches.

“Stop being ridiculous, dear,” he said in a voice that should have been irritated but was instead fond. “Now, you’ve been Summoned before, of course, but I haven’t. What is the—er—usual process humans have to use to Summon a demon?”

Explanations ensued. Crowley insisted that not just any human could Summon a demon; there had to be some occult power involved. “Are they witches?”

Aziraphale looked at the women. They were exchanging baffled frowns.

“Cindy used to be into wicca,” Lydia offered doubtfully.

“It did _not_ involve demons,” Cindy snapped, tugging at a white tuft of hair. “That’s not a thing.”

They left that topic for the time being. Crowley explained further that humans usually had to have a desire for something they thought they could get from a demon in order to successfully Summon one. “A really minor witch can make a Summoning spell work if they want something bad enough.”

“But none of us wanted to Summon a demon at all,” objected Cindy.

“Well, _you_ should have, Cindy,” said Vanessa. Several pairs of startled eyes fixed on her. She shrugged flannel-clad shoulders. “To help with Tim and Drew.”

“Who?” Crowley’s voice demanded.

“Drew’s my son,” Cindy explained, adjusting her headband. “He’s trans, and his dad—my ex—is _not_ doing well with the transition. But I wouldn’t have thought to call up a demon to help with…acceptance. I would have thought they’d…support intolerance.”

“Hey!” Crowley protested.

“Although I did think about a learning support assistant for Katie,” Cindy concluded, glancing at Lydia.

“ _Who_?” said Crowley.

“My granddaughter,” said Lydia. “She’s autistic, and her school had this really terrific aide for her class, and then there were funding cuts—but I have to say, I wouldn’t have thought about a demonic tutor or whatever for her.”

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale, sipping his tea again and thinking of Warlock. “You’d be surprised.”

Lydia glanced at him but didn’t inquire further. “I actually thought about your book, sweetie,” she said, squeezing Vanessa’s hand. “Finding a publisher and all.”

“Hang on,” said Eileen, “we were saying a Summoning spell…and the three of you each thought of something for each other?”

“Oh no,” groaned Parveen, rolling her eyes. “It’s going to be the power of love, isn’t it?”

“Oh, that’s marvelous,” said Aziraphale, smiling. There was indeed a great deal of love washing through the room. He could hear Crowley grumbling faintly.

“Wait, what did you two think about?” said Lydia, looking suspiciously at Eileen and Parveen.

“Who’s saying I thought about anything?” said Eileen immediately.

This only served to bring everyone’s gaze to her. She sighed and rolled her eyes, looking very American.

“I thought about your tutoring nonprofit plan,” she said at Parveen, grudgingly.

Parveen choked on her tea. “The one you keep saying is a terrible idea?”

“The _idea_ is good; it’s the logistics that are the problem,” Eileen began—

“Don’t let them get started!” said Lydia and Cindy at the same time.

Both Eileen and Parveen looked to be marshaling arguments despite this objection, but—

“So, what did you think about, Parveen?” said Vanessa, innocently.

Parveen sputtered. “I didn’t—I don’t believe in demons.”

“Neither did any of the rest of us,” said Lydia, eyes narrowed.

“Oh, fine,” Parveen grimaced. “I thought about your building remodel,” she said to Eileen.

Eileen raised an eyebrow and just barely kept from smirking. “The one you keep saying is nothing but a paperwork pit?”

“Unless you have another place lying about waiting to be remodeled, love,” Parveen retorted.

“Can you stop, please?” begged Crowley through the telephone. The ladies’ gazes jumped back to it where it sat on the table; they had clearly forgotten about him. “You can’t—you can’t Summon a demon with the power of love. That’s—that’s not how—”

“I don’t see why not, Crowley,” Aziraphale spoke up. “You said they had to want something badly, and they did. They just happened to want it for each other.”

“Ehhhh,” Crowley equivocated. “All right, look, either way, they’re not going to be able to send you back with the Banishing spell that’s in that book.”

“Oh? What recipe did you use for that one, dear?”

Crowley sighed. “Lentil stew,” he admitted. “Um—listen—whoever’s house it is—just give me your address, and I’ll come pick him up.”

“I’m not giving a demon my address!” Cindy said indignantly.

“We can’t keep him here much longer, though,” Parveen pointed out.

“I agree with Parveen,” said Eileen. Several people stared at her. “Believe it or not.”

“We could just give him a ride to his shop,” Vanessa suggested into the startled silence.

“You can’t—wait, yes you can,” said Crowley. “Yes, drive him back to the bookshop. Terrific idea. Who said that? I like that one.”

“D’you think it’s safe to let him out?” asked Cindy, still uncertain.

The women exchanged cautious glances.

“Well, the worst thing he’s done so far is ask for tea,” Lydia said slowly.

“You asked for tea?” Crowley echoed through the telephone.

“They offered!” Aziraphale defended himself.

“I’m still not sure—” Cindy started.

“Could still be a trick—”

“He might be—”

Vanessa stood, extended a slippered foot, and extinguished a candle.

“Nessa!” Lydia flung herself off the couch, long limbs flailing, to pull Vanessa away from the now-absent pentagram.

Parveen and Eileen were frozen in mid-debate. Cindy pulled off her headband and forgot to put it back.

“Oh, that’s _much_ better,” said Aziraphale. He stood and stretched, feeling the extremely rare urge to pop his ears. Cindy and Eileen visibly shrank back. Lydia, on the other hand, moved a step closer, putting more of herself between him and Vanessa. Parveen crossed her arms and frowned at him.

Aziraphale smiled reassuringly at them, wondering if another proper angelic greeting would be appropriate, or if that would be redundant at this point.

“Ah…does one of you have a vehicle?” he settled on eventually.

They decided on Cindy’s vehicle. Parveen’s was evidently the largest, but she claimed that she wasn’t about to allow a demon in it (“or angel; I _know_ , love”).

“Or that it’s too much of a wreck for us to fit,” muttered Eileen, snidely.

“ _You_ try keeping a car clean when you’re hauling seven grandkids around all week.”

“Are we in Chiswick?” Aziraphale asked, mildly startled, as they made their way down dark streets from Cindy’s neighborhood to a main road. He supposed he shouldn’t be snobbish, but honestly—his first Summoning, and he only went to _Chiswick_.

Nobody exactly answered.

“Don’t go sending your demon boyfriend to haunt me, now that you know where I live,” said Cindy, only partly joking.

“Demons don’t haunt; that’s ghosts,” said Aziraphale abstractedly, thinking of Crowley waiting for them.

Thankfully, he didn’t have much longer to wait. Traffic was light at this time of night (for London, anyway), so it was only around half an hour before Cindy pulled to a stop in front of the bookshop. For the first time in—well, probably ever, it had light pouring from all its windows. Crowley burst out of the door as Aziraphale left Cindy’s vehicle.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice was thick with relief, and he reached for Aziraphale’s hand, much to Aziraphale’s gratification—“change back.”

“Change…sorry, my dear?”

“Our—essences. Whatever it is,” said Crowley, waving his free hand urgently. “Switch them back.”

“I—I see. But I don’t suppose there’s any rush, really; we’d only just started—”

“Quickly, before anything else happens.”

“Ah—well. Yes, of course, dear,” said Aziraphale. He found his own essence within Crowley and began pulling it back into himself, at the same time that—with a definite pang of loss—he felt Crowley’s essence slipping away from him.

“All back, then?” Aziraphale asked. It had taken barely a second.

“Yeah,” said Crowley, dropping Aziraphale’s hand with a sigh that managed to be relieved and tense at once.

“My dear,” said Aziraphale, trying to keep from sounding hurt, “are you—”

“What do _they_ want?” Crowley demanded, his gaze (through his sunglasses) locking on something behind Aziraphale. All five women were ranged across the pavement behind them.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said apologetically, “to see a demon, I think.”

“ _I_ wanted to see the bookshop,” said Vanessa cheerfully. “No offense,” she added to Crowley. “It’s nice to see you too.” She extended a hand; he shook it bemusedly. “May I?” she asked Aziraphale.

“Oh—certainly, my dear,” said Aziraphale, who had been looking forward to time alone with Crowley and instead found himself courteously bowing Vanessa through the door.

“We’re not—” Crowley sputtered, “we’re not having them in for tea and biscuits, angel!”

“Definitely not,” said Lydia. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to accept food from demons.”

“That’s witches,” snapped Crowley.

“Or Hades,” supplied Vanessa, who was entranced by Aziraphale’s towers of books.

“I’m not him,” Crowley said, grimacing.

“Maybe it’s that you’re not supposed to feed them after midnight?” Cindy suggested.

“That’s gremlins,” said Eileen.

“Anyway,” Crowley growled, “the point is that we’re _not_ feeding you. Specifically not offering food. You’ve seen a real live demon”—he waved sarcastically—“and you’ve seen the books—don’t you have human night-y things to be doing? Carousing or something?”

Several women snorted.

“Love, we haven’t caroused in years,” Parveen chortled.

“Speak for yourself,” said Eileen, primly.

“My dears,” said Aziraphale, who was becoming increasingly nervous both at the number of people wandering through his books and at the tension radiating from Crowley, “it’s been lovely meeting you all, but I do believe one of you mentioned…ah…a need for sleep, earlier? I do hope we’ll meet again under better circumstances.”

Somehow he got them herded out onto the pavement (he suspected Lydia and Parveen had more to do with this than he did) and saw them off with an attempt at a cheery wave.

“Well,” Eileen’s voice floated back to him as they reached the car, “book club _was_ very exciting this time.”

“It was much more experiential than usual,” said Vanessa.


	3. The Haunting in the Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A book fell off a shelf to her left and hit the floor with a bang.  
> Cindy and Eileen jumped. Lydia threw a protective arm in front of Vanessa. Parveen raised an eyebrow.  
> Aziraphale glared at the book. His books did not fall off their shelves; they knew better.  
> “I beg your pardon,” he said as he stood to return it to its place. He gave the bookshelf a glare as well, reminding it of its duty.  
> “Anyway,” said Vanessa, as he returned to his seat, “about the Regency Era; I was wondering—”  
> Another book fell with an even louder bang.  
> “Oh dear,” Aziraphale sighed.  
> “Is your shop haunted?” demanded Cindy.  
> “Certainly not,” Aziraphale replied, affronted. He didn’t even allow customers to linger for more than a few minutes; he certainly wouldn’t have permitted a ghost to hang about.  
> Another book fell, apparently seized by a desire to contradict him.  
> “It’s just like in the book,” Vanessa noted, her eyes gleaming again.

**Chapter 3: The Haunting in the Library**

_“Colin?” he whispered, longingly. “Colin, are you here?” What if it had been too long; what if Colin had grown tired of waiting for him?_

_“Diego!” Colin’s voice echoed softly around him a split second before Colin appeared, stepping straight out of the bookshelf as always, his ghostly face beaming with relief. “Oh, I was so worried!” he gasped. “That woman who rushed you away seemed so angry, and I thought—I thought something awful might have happened to you.” He reached a nearly-transparent hand toward Diego, and Diego wished more desperately than ever that he could touch him, hold him…_

_“I’m fine,” he said reassuringly. “The lady was my sister. There were…family things. It’s…it’s fine now. As fine as it ever gets.” He ached for Colin to console him, but the aggravating details of his family life wouldn’t even make sense to someone who was technically older than Charles Dickens. “Did anything exciting happen around here while I was gone?” he asked instead, forcing a smile._

_Colin’s eyes (Diego wished he knew what color they were) were fixed on Diego’s face. “No,” he said softly. “I’m so glad you’re back, Diego.”_

“C’mon, Aziraphale,” said Crowley, pulling the door closed. Aziraphale felt a fresh pang of guilt at the fatigue in his voice.

“My dear, you should sleep,” he said, laying his hand on Crowley’s arm. Crowley flinched away.

“Wine,” he snapped, heading for the backroom. “We’re having copious amounts of wine.”

Aziraphale blinked after him. He had been aware that his fantasies of falling into Crowley’s protective arms at the end of this adventure and proceeding to…other relieved activities…were likely unrealistic. But he’d expected _some_ sort of warm reception. So far all he’d gotten was a demand to un-mix their essences and a Crowley who was both freshly averse to any sort of contact and, apparently, committed to becoming copiously drunk.

It was rare for either of them to outpace the other when alcohol was involved, but Crowley managed it this time. His ranting about humans who Summoned demons, and these humans in particular, became progressively more difficult to follow over the next couple of hours, until he lapsed into a sort of morose mumbling. Aziraphale wondered if this was a prelude to Crowley napping for days on end, or perhaps a century.

Oh dear, he hoped not.

Although, he thought glumly, as Crowley became increasingly horizontal, at least Crowley would be here in the bookshop with him, rather than alone in his flat, if that _were_ to occur.

“Ssssorry, angel,” Crowley said blearily, just before passing out on the couch. “Was my fault. Got greedy. Ssstupid. Won’t happen again.”

Aziraphale supposed he must be referring to the _Demon Summoning_ book, though he couldn’t imagine what Crowley would have been greedy for—even if the human author had paid him, it wasn’t as though Crowley needed money.

“Ah—don’t worry about it at all, my dear,” he said vaguely. “I’m sure you thought it was for the best at the time.”

Aziraphale’s concerns about Crowley’s somnolence proved unfounded. Instead of sleeping for days, Crowley was awake before nine the next morning, surly with a stubborn hangover.

“You need to organize your books,” he snapped, ferociously pointing his coffee mug at Aziraphale.

“They _are_ organized,” Aziraphale said automatically, scrambling to remove several of them from the vicinity of both demon and coffee.

“In what universe does this qualify as organized?” Crowley retorted, waving the coffee mug and a bit of barely-nibbled toast at the closest teetering stacks.

“I know exactly where everything is,” said Aziraphale primly, keeping a firm eye on the coffee mug so that it wouldn’t dare spill.

“ _You_ do. But nobody else can find a damn thing.”

“But that’s the point, Crowley; I don’t want anyone else—” he broke off and frowned at Crowley. “For Heav—goodness’ sake, why are you going on about my bookshop organization all of a sudden?”

“There’s _not_ any organization; that’s my point,” Crowley grumbled, then glowered at his coffee mug. “What kind of coffee is this, anyway? It’s too blonde.”

“It’s a dark roast!”

“Hmph. Not dark enough.”

Crowley continued in that vein until Aziraphale opened the bookshop just to give him someone else to harass.

Of course, it was natural for Crowley to be grumpy after their late and disrupted night, Aziraphale reminded himself. Crowley would no doubt be perfectly fine with a bit of time and space to himself and a good night’s sleep.

Except that Crowley seemed determined _not_ to take any time or space to himself. He stayed in the bookshop all day—which wasn’t unusual in the month since the world hadn’t ended, but now, instead of lounging comfortably in the back room, he was…well…lurking. He kept just enough distance between them to appear coincidental, but he was always hovering somewhere within Aziraphale’s peripheral vision. By late afternoon, he’d raided Aziraphale’s wine supply and had taken to pacing around the bookshop with an uncorked bottle, ranting about—Aziraphale concentrated to pick up the thread—ants, apparently.

“Organized,” Crowley insisted. “The way they march around in schools.” The last remaining customer gave him an alarmed look and fled the premises.

“I don’t think ants travel in schools,” Aziraphale objected, locking the bookshop door and flipping the sign to “Closed.”

“Sure they do. Big packs. Or maybe it’s hives. No, that’s allergies. Herds. Or one of those funny words. Like the thing crows travel in. Parliament? Parliament of ants?”

Aziraphale was actually relieved when Crowley was drunk enough to be persuaded to stretch out on the couch and drift off to sleep. He did, admittedly, feel a momentary return of his old, unpleasantly familiar pulse of fear— _he has to leave; it isn’t safe for him to stay; what if someone_ —

He took in a breath and let it out, remembering that he no longer had to listen to that voice. Crowley could stay as long as he wanted—and had been, more nights than not, since August. Aziraphale had no idea how he could be comfortable, draped across the sofa in odd configurations, but Crowley seemed to sleep quite well that way. Presumably a full night of rest was in order and would restore him to ordinary-Crowley levels of irritability.

It didn’t.

Instead, Crowley persisted over the next few days in his new habit of ill-tempered loitering.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale snapped on the second day after their disrupted experiment—he’d found himself becoming progressively more querulous in response to Crowley’s stream of petulance—“have you been rearranging my books?”

“Huh?” said Crowley, jarred out of a series of complaints about Aziraphale’s refusal to adapt to modern technology. “No, why would I do that?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips at him. “Well, _I_ certainly didn’t put _Seventeenth Century French Occult Practitioners_ in between Bachélard and Poincaré.”

“Don’t see why not,” Crowley grumbled. “They’re all French, aren’t they?”

“I don’t organize them by nationality!” Aziraphale retorted, offended.

“Oh? What is it this week, favorite drinking songs?”

Aziraphale twitched. “Beard length, if you must know. What were you doing reading about witchcraft in seventeenth-century France?”

Crowley looked away, suddenly appearing uncomfortable.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale demanded suspiciously.

The demon rubbed the back of his neck. “Was trying to figure out how to get you back, wasn’t I?” he mumbled.

“How to get me—ohh.” Aziraphale was visited by an image of Crowley, alone in the bookshop, frantically trying to find something that would tell him how to reverse a Summoning. He stepped toward him. “My dear, I—”

“Murder!” Crowley shouted, jumping out of the chair he was perched on.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s what crows travel in. Or sit around in. When they’re not traveling.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Perhaps you could choose some wine for us, dear.”

He discovered more and more out-of-place books over the next few days, further indications of Crowley’s panicked search for information on how to…retrieve him. Even though he had quite literally experienced the intensity of Crowley’s anxiety at the time, seeing this physical evidence was almost more…telling…in a way. In any case, it helped him maintain his patience a bit better in the face of Crowley’s newfound peevishness. Of course Crowley had been badly rattled, and of course it might take him some time to return to normal, Aziraphale thought on the third day, retrieving _The Fifteenth Compendium of Occultic Philosophers_ out of the section of “cartographers who visited Africa exactly once” while listening to Crowley’s litany of complaints about…oh dear; he’d lost track. Amusement parks, possibly. He did wish that Crowley would simply _talk with him_ about how he was feeling, or—better yet—allow Aziraphale to hold him and soothe him, or at least _touch_ him, but—

“Hello? Mr. Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale was still trying to puzzle out who would be addressing him as “Mr. Aziraphale”—he was “Mr. Fell” to customers and “Aziraphale” to celestial or infernal intruders—when a flurry of black sunglasses and red hair rushed passed him, snarling, “What the Heav—somewhere—do _you_ want?”

Aziraphale hurried along in Crowley’s wake to find him glowering at two human women on the other side of the front counter—one Black, short and plump, wearing soft, garishly bright clothes; the other white, taller and thinner, with dark hair and clothes that hugged her form closely.

“Miss Vanessa! Miss Lydia!” Aziraphale exclaimed. Lydia, who had wedged herself in front of Vanessa, continued to glare at Crowley. Vanessa smiled at Aziraphale from behind her right shoulder.

“Just Vanessa, please,” she said.

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “And simply ‘Aziraphale’ for me as well. Ah—to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“Um,” said Vanessa, “should we…call off the guard dogs first?” She tilted her head sideways, to where Lydia and Crowley were still staring each other down across the counter. Lydia blinked and finally looked away from Crowley.

“Did you just call me a guard dog?”

Vanessa shrugged gently and patted her hand.

“Technically,” Aziraphale said, “Crowley would be a guard snake, not a dog, but…I do see your point, my dear. Crowley, dear boy, do please relax. I’m quite sure they don’t mean any harm.” Aziraphale wished he had the courage to pat Crowley’s hand in the familiar way that the humans had just done, but the demon had been horrendously twitchy over the past few days in response to any kind of contact.

“Don’t have to mean harm to do harm,” Crowley scowled, but he shifted a few steps backward. Lydia didn’t exactly relax either, but she didn’t protest as Vanessa moved around her to place a sack on the table.

“We thought,” Vanessa said, “or, well, some of us thought, that we should apologize, a bit, for the other night.” She began extracting items from the sack. “We made biscuits—well, Lydia did; she’s the cook—I’m better at eating—and Cindy did a tea assortment. Don’t worry; it’s not anything _too_ weird. And—”

She pulled out a yellow softcover book that was unpleasantly familiar. Aziraphale felt Crowley stiffen, even from a few feet away. “This is so you know we won’t be using it again,” Vanessa explained, laying _Demon Summoning and Control for Dummies_ on the table.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale awkwardly. “Ah—thank you.”

“ _And_ ,” Vanessa said, bringing out two additional books, smaller and more interestingly illustrated, “I know you’re more into older books”—her eyes traveled around the bookshelves behind Aziraphale and Crowley with open awe—“but if you wanted something lighter, these are the book club books from—”

“What,” interrupted Crowley, “is _that_?” He sauntered forward and snatched _Dark Cravings_ from Vanessa, staring with horror at the very…sultry…demon depicted on the cover.

“In retrospect, it probably wasn’t very accurate,” Vanessa said mildly.

“ _Not accurate_?” Crowley sputtered, holding the book by the corner as if it might contaminate him. “That's…that’s…”

“Thought it might give you a laugh,” Lydia cut through his indignation.

“Ermnngghh,” Crowley attempted.

“Thank you kindly, my dears,” said Aziraphale, with a quelling side-glance toward his grumbling demon. “And the other book?”

“Oh,” said Vanessa brightly, “that’s our book for next time. We thought—well, some of us thought—that you might…be interested in reading it with us?”

“Reading it…with…you?” Aziraphale echoed.

Crowley hissed. “You kidnapped him and now you want him to come join your little human club?”

“ _Crowley_!” Aziraphale tried to shush him. “It’s a kind invitation. There’s no need to be rude.”

“Kind invitation?!” Crowley said furiously. “You can’t—they already trapped you in their house once, for God—Sat—someone’s sake! You can’t possibly be thinking of trusting them again!”

“I certainly can if I want to!” snapped Aziraphale, who had been planning on politely declining the invitation up until approximately five seconds ago.

“No,” Crowley said, flailing, “no, you can’t just go off to a house with—with—” he gestured at the two humans as if they were explosive devices. Or freshly-delivered infant Antichrists.

“As a matter of fact,” Vanessa interposed before Aziraphale could marshal his infuriated rejoinder, “you wouldn’t _have_ to come to one of our houses.”

Lydia made a small, pained noise. Both angel and demon refocused their attention on the humans with an effort.

“I beg your pardon, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, trying to resurrect his usual interacting-with-humans politeness.

“Well,” Vanessa said, taking in a breath, “it’s my turn to plan the experiential activity. And…the book is about a ghost that lives in a library. So I was wondering if…possibly…you wouldn’t mind if we had the meeting here. It’s not exactly a library, but it certainly has the right atmosphere. Stop fussing, Lydia; it can’t hurt to ask.”

Crowley, meanwhile, had to mouth soundlessly for several seconds before he could begin his own fussing. “They—they kidnapped you, and now they’re just…they’re just inviting themselves over?”

“Do hush, Crowley,” Aziraphale replied, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I think it’s a lovely idea.”

“Really?” Vanessa lit up. Lydia gave them all a very startled blink.

“Indeed, yes,” said Aziraphale, who had never, in over two centuries, considered voluntarily inviting a nosy pack of humans into his bookshop.

Crowley swore under his breath and threw up his hands. “Fine, it’s your shop,” he mumbled, and slunk away to slouch against the nearest shelf. Aziraphale glanced after him in a way that he hoped looked irritated rather than worried, and turned back to Vanessa and Lydia.

“This is the book,” Vanessa said quickly, handing him a pristine paperback entitled _The Haunting in the Library_. Its cover was mercifully free of nude, inaccurate demons, and instead featured two fully-dressed young men (one of whom was rather transparent), surrounded by bookshelves and gazing into each other’s eyes in a way that even Aziraphale found a bit excessively lovestruck. “Don’t worry; it’s very G-rated. Well…maybe T. But there’s nothing explicit at all.”

“Right,” said Aziraphale, wondering how much mocking he’d have to endure from Crowley if he asked him what all the Gs and Ts were for. “That sounds wonderful. Ah—when would this meeting be taking place, then?”

The book club (reading circle, as Cindy would no doubt correct them) met fortnightly. Aziraphale and the ladies made their plans—or, rather, Vanessa explained her plan. Aziraphale mainly listened, while Lydia slouched nearby, though not _quite_ as grumpily as Crowley, who had 6000 years of practice at grumpy slouching.

After the ladies left, Aziraphale insisted on taking Crowley out for dinner (if that was the correct wording when Crowley was the one driving and paying), though he wasn’t sure that the change of scenery succeeded in cheering the demon up. On their return to the bookshop, Aziraphale automatically went to fetch wine, then paused. He didn’t like the thought of Crowley…well, for lack of a better phrase, drinking himself to sleep. Yet again.

“Crowley, dear, I think I’d like some tea, to go with the biscuits. Shall I make you some as well?”

“Huh?” said Crowley blankly. “Oh. Ehhh, sure.” He was glowering at the _Demon Summoning_ book in a way that suggested that he was considering setting it on fire (somewhere far from the bookshop, presumably). To prevent this, Aziraphale took it and deposited it in a drawer while the tea was steeping. This didn’t stop Crowley from glowering; while they drank their tea, he regarded Lydia’s biscuits as if they had insulted the Bentley.

“You know,” said Aziraphale, carefully, after the tea was long gone, as Crowley slouched into the couch cushions, “I do have a bed.”

“You do?” Crowley asked, startled into alertness. “I mean, sure you do. ‘Course. Up…up in the flat somewhere, right?”

Admittedly, Aziraphale had never used the bed for sleeping, but since the events of August, he’d successfully unearthed it from the piles of books it had been helpfully supporting for decades. He’d tried not to think too hard about his reasons for doing this.

“Why are we…talking about beds?” Crowley asked warily.

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “It’s just that…you seem…a bit sleepy, possibly. And…ah…I thought that…you could sleep there. In the bed. Instead of on the couch. Not that I mind your sleeping on the couch, of course. But I can’t imagine that it’s comfortable. The couch, I mean.”

He was sure he was blushing, but Crowley looked too dazed to notice. Some time later, Aziraphale found himself in a similarly startled state, when Crowley was, in fact, sleepily ensconced in his bed. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what _he_ should do, given that he wasn’t planning on sleeping, and his fantasies about…other bed-related activities…seemed just as far from realization as they had in the days when he’d had to pretend Crowley was his enemy. For instance, would Crowley want privacy or prefer company while he slept? Aziraphale’s only clue was that Crowley hadn’t openly objected to his presence in the bedroom yet.

He chose to take that as a positive sign, though, and sat down with a book in a recently-excavated armchair and did his best to read. This was generally unsuccessful. Most of his attention was taken up with the way Crowley’s eyes were drifting closed and his breathing was deepening. And the way the dim lamplight caught his cheekbones and brought out highlights in his hair…

Reading. Right. Of course.

Once Crowley was definitely asleep, Aziraphale gave up on his attempts to wade through the centuries-old book he’d chosen. After a very brief internal debate, he pursed his lips and miracled _Dark Cravings_ into his hand.

The novel was long since finished and miracled safely back down into the bookshop by the time Crowley woke with a gasp in the morning.

“Angel?” His voice was confused, sleepy…anxious.

“Good morning, my dear,” Aziraphale said, as soothingly as he could manage.

Crowley sat up stiffly, his eyes wide and fully snakelike as they found Aziraphale. “Bed,” he observed.

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. Oh _dear_ ; he wanted _so_ badly to wrap his arms around Crowley, soothe away whatever had frightened him, plant a morning kiss in that pillow-mussed hair…

The host of…other activities…inspired by _Dark Cravings_ was _not_ helping.

Crowley flopped bonelessly back down onto the bed. “Gimme a minute.” He was staring fixedly at the ceiling.

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, trying not to sound worried. “I’ll just be downstairs. I _was_ hoping you’d be amenable to going out for a spot of breakfast.”

This only resulted in an inarticulate grumble from Crowley, but the demon appeared in the shop a quarter of an hour later, fully dressed, sunglasses on, hair coiffed in its usual ruffled way these days.

The next several days settled into a routine that was…agreeable enough. Reading in his bedroom armchair while Crowley slept was certainly pleasantly domestic. And Crowley’s newly-heightened irascibility gradually faded. But…Crowley continued to maintain at least three feet of very prickly space between himself and Aziraphale. Aziraphale couldn’t even touch his arm to get his attention. (Or use “getting his attention” as an excuse to touch his arm.)

Meanwhile, the reading circle meeting-day approached quickly. Aziraphale had read _The Haunting in the Library_ the first day after Vanessa and Lydia left it, and had tried to conceal from Crowley how much he enjoyed it. Crowley hadn’t touched it, at least not when Aziraphale could see. He did pick up _Dark Cravings_ , though, reading the funnier bits out loud to Aziraphale (who had not, of course, admitted to having already read it himself).

“ _The scent of sandalwood enveloped her as he seized her in muscular arms_ ,” Crowley read in his most scathingly mocking voice, the one he reserved for Aziraphale doing something especially infuriating. “ _She should have felt frightened. She should have struggled. But instead, warmth spread through her. She felt safer than she had in days_.” He snorted. “It wouldn’t be sandalwood you’d be smelling if Hastur seized you.” He wrinkled his nose despite Hastur being (hopefully) nowhere near. “And why would they think a demon would be muscular? Flabby, clammy arms, more like.”

“Quite right, my dear,” said Aziraphale, trying not to be too obvious in his ogling of Crowley’s arms (which were neither flabby nor clammy). He wasn’t overly fond of the odor of sandalwood himself, but he did have a certain preference for the smoky, spicy scent that hung about Crowley, so he had some sympathy for Rowena’s perspective.

Crowley had complained enough about the reading circle meeting that Aziraphale thought he might head to his own flat for the evening, but he showed no sign of leaving on Saturday as evening approached. He refused to participate, of course, claiming (with even more blatant dishonesty than usual) that he didn’t read, and that if he _were_ to take up reading, it certainly wouldn’t be “sappy, sentimental romances. I’m a demon; I don’t do _sweet_.”

“Of course, dear boy,” said Aziraphale blandly, thinking of Crowley’s long silences and swift page-turning as he’d approached the end of _Dark Cravings_ last week.

In any case, Crowley retired up to Aziraphale’s flat not long after the five humans arrived, staying only long enough to give each of them one of his more glareful glares. It was possible that this didn’t have the effect he desired. Cindy at least adjusted her headband nervously, and Lydia shifted so that she was between her wife and Crowley, but Eileen merely flipped her black-and-silver hair behind her shoulder, Parveen sniffed dismissively, and Vanessa gave Crowley a cheerful wave from the other side of Lydia.

“We’ll take good care of him!” she told Crowley, who responded by making a bit of a production of stomping up the stairs.

Aziraphale took in a breath and let it out slowly. “Shall I start some tea?” he asked the five women.

“I just want to point out,” said Parveen, once they were all settled with tea and biscuits, “not that I’m opposed to adding new people to the group, but this was always meant as a _women’s_ book club. And angel or whatever, he’s still a man. No offense, love.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, “none taken, my dear, but I must say that’s not entirely accurate. Angels—and demons, for that matter—don’t fall into binary genders. I realize my corporation appears…ah…conventionally male, but in reality I’m…an entity that can’t be classified in terms of human genders.”

“Huh,” said Lydia, her eyes raking up and down his corporation in a way that seemed positively scandalous. “So…you could be a woman if you wanted?”

“I could…take on the typical presentation of a human woman, yes,” Aziraphale said, carefully accurate.

“Have you ever?” she asked bluntly.

“Well, no,” he admitted. “I’m very comfortable with this form.”

“It does look very comfortable,” said Vanessa, approvingly.

“You can definitely tell you’re the type to find something comfortable and stick with it,” said Parveen, not especially approvingly, shoving a hand through her pointy hair, which was bright blue today. “Anyway,” she continued, rolling her eyes, “ _fine_ , the book club can be women and nonbinary entities.”

The discussion began, though Aziraphale was a bit distracted by sudden, unwelcome thoughts. It was certainly true that he’d maintained the same physical form for…well, always. What if Crowley preferred…different shapes? Could that be why things hadn’t…progressed…the way Aziraphale was tentatively hoping?

“What do you think, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale shook himself and smiled at Vanessa. “I’m terribly sorry, my dear. Could you say that again?”

He did his best to focus on the struggles of Colin and Diego instead of fruitless pondering about Crowley’s…aesthetic preferences. The ladies were currently critiquing the realism of Diego’s family situation, which Aziraphale _did_ find interesting, though he didn’t feel qualified to comment. But soon the topic shifted to an analysis of Colin’s historical background, and it dawned on Vanessa, the history teacher, that they had a living, breathing (well, when he wanted to) witness to that historical period right in the room with them.

“Aziraphale,” she said, a gleam in her eyes that made Aziraphale brace himself, “how realistic _would_ it have been for a young man in the Regency—”

A book fell off a shelf to her left and hit the floor with a bang.

Cindy and Eileen jumped. Lydia threw a protective arm in front of Vanessa. Parveen raised an eyebrow.

Aziraphale glared at the book. His books did _not_ fall off their shelves; they knew better.

“I beg your pardon,” he said as he stood to return it to its place. He gave the bookshelf a glare as well, reminding it of its duty.

“Anyway,” said Vanessa, as he returned to his seat, “about the Regency Era; I was wondering—”

Another book fell with an even louder bang.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale sighed.

“Is your shop haunted?” demanded Cindy.

“Certainly _not_ ,” Aziraphale replied, affronted. He didn’t even allow customers to linger for more than a few minutes; he certainly wouldn’t have permitted a ghost to hang about.

Another book fell, apparently seized by a desire to contradict him.

“It’s just like in the book,” Vanessa noted, her eyes gleaming again.

“It is, isn’t it,” said Aziraphale, frowning.

“Eep!” Cindy eeped, jumping up. A hat had sailed off the coat rack and landed in her lap.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Aziraphale said—

—And was cut off as the grandfather clock chimed, which might not have been odd, except that 1) The current time was twenty minutes past the hour, 2) The grandfather clock hadn’t chimed in decades, and 3) It was chiming a bebop tune.

That was quite enough.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale snapped.

The shop fell ringingly silent.

“Honestly, Crowley, if you want to join us, there’s nothing stopping you,” Aziraphale said, loudly.

A few more seconds of silence ticked by, then Crowley oozed out of the gloom between two bookcases, a few inches from Eileen, who jumped sideways. Cindy eeped again and grabbed her headband.

“More fun thisss way,” Crowley said, sulkily.

“Do be quiet and have some tea, dear,” said Aziraphale, handing him a teacup.

Cindy eeped yet again, Lydia took in a hissing breath, and Parveen swore.

Aziraphale looked at them in confusion—had something else happened?

“Angel,” Crowley said—and thank _goodness_ , there was a grin hidden in his voice now, _finally_ —“you do realize that you pulling teacups out of thin air is probably more terrifying than anything I was doing?”

“Ah—oh.” Aziraphale looked at the teacup. It was one that he’d owned for well over a century, and it was therefore resigned to finding itself in the cupboard one second and full of tea in Aziraphale’s hand the next. Aziraphale looked back at the ladies, who were in a much more surprised state than the teacup. “I do apologize, my dears. I forgot myself.”

(“ _I forgot myself_ ,” he heard Crowley mimic under his breath.)

“Why does your grandfather clock play Bohemian Rhapsody?” asked Eileen.

“It doesn’t,” replied Aziraphale, who had no idea what tune the clock had just played, but was quite sure it did not know any rhapsodies, Bohemian or otherwise.

“It does now,” said Crowley, smirking.

Aziraphale huffed. If Crowley had miracled his grandfather clock to chime bebop ditties at all hours, he would…well, he would have to have a very serious word with him.

“So,” Vanessa said firmly. “About the Regency Era.”

Aziraphale spent the next half hour answering Vanessa’s barrage of highly specific questions, or trying to. He could hardly be expected to remember the details of every human time period or political regime, after all. On the other hand, he certainly _did_ remember how terribly dashing Crowley had looked in those high-waisted tailcoats and calf-high Hessian boots.

“Yes, you’ve…um…said,” said Vanessa.

“Ah—yes. Quite right,” Aziraphale replied. Fortunately, Crowley was out of earshot, as he had been commandeered by Eileen and Lydia. They were intent on their own question barrage, evidently about that nice young musician Crowley had spent some time with a few years ago—Frederick, hadn’t it been? And his last name had something to do with astronomy. Jupiter, perhaps. Aziraphale couldn’t see what it had to do with the book they’d read, but then, he didn’t keep track of newfangled music. “Do you have a particular interest in the Regency Era, my dear?”

“Oh,” she said, a touch embarrassed. “Not _exactly_. I’m…the book I’m writing at the moment…that’s when it’s set. I’ve researched the time period, naturally, but nothing compares to a living source.”

“I see,” he replied. “Well, perhaps I can be of service.”

“Of course, I still have to find a publisher for my first book,” she sighed. “I know a romance about queer zombie hunters in 16th-century Florence is a little bit off the beaten path, but I was hoping there would be _someone_ interested.”

“What about”—Aziraphale asked about a publisher that Anathema had mentioned. Vanessa hadn’t heard of them yet. And if he used a tiny bit of angelic influence to ensure that if she sent it in, it would land on the right person’s desk…well, it barely counted as a miracle, really, since it would almost certainly have ended up there anyway. And the writing would still have to be sufficiently skilled to meet the publisher’s standards.

In any event, he and Vanessa had quite a pleasant chat about historical periods as the evening went on. It was Parveen who eventually stood up first to leave.

“I’ve got to get two of the grandkids to tennis matches in the morning,” she said. “Goodnight, loves. I’m up next time”—she looked to Aziraphale and Crowley—“will you two be joining us again?”

Crowley made a very noncommittal noise.

“We’d love to, my dear,” said Aziraphale warmly.

Parveen’s lips twitched as she glanced from one of them to the other. “Alright then. We’ll get you the book and let you know where and when to meet us. I don’t suppose you have a mobile, love? No, of course not. We’ll get in touch.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, after the ladies had left and the bookshop had returned to its usual quiet state (indeed, feeling a bit more quiet than usual, by contrast).

“Yeah?” said Crowley, apprehensively.

“You said you hadn’t read the book for tonight.”

“Uhhh…yeah. You know I don’t read.”

“Really, dear? Then how did you manage to perfectly imitate a scene from it with your little poltergeist act?”

“Nyeh,” said Crowley. “Dunno what you’re talking about.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Of course you don’t.” He looked at Crowley. Crowley looked back at him guilelessly (which was a ridiculous look on a demon). Aziraphale felt his lips twitching fondly. He would make sure to leave the next book sitting out where Crowley could easily reach it. Accidentally, of course.


	4. Sins of the Flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next reading circle outing contains some surprises!
> 
> (There's, like, some mild angst here? Nothing bad happens, but Aziraphale is in full "clever but stupid" mode in his thoughts about Crowley. Just so you know going in!)

**Chapter 4: Sins of the Flesh**

_Isobel took in a deep breath and set her shoulders. She could do this. She could. She must._

_She tucked her hands into the black sleeves of her nun’s robe and prepared to process into the church, in her place in line next to Alys._

_Why oh why did she have to be placed next to Alys?_

_Alys, with her devotional perfection, her richly curling black hair, her tall, willowy figure…_

_That Isobel must never touch._

_No, she could never touch Alys the way she wanted to, shouldn’t even think of touching Alys in that way or in any sort of way. She should be happy with the smile and quiet greeting she could have from her once a day when speaking was allowed; with singing next to her during the services; with sitting beside her in chapter meetings and at meals._

_Sitting beside her while always, always keeping her distance lest she be tempted to touch, keeping her eyes forward lest she be tempted to look, keeping her thoughts on anything else lest she be tempted to…to…enact her nighttime fantasies…_

_She must, must ignore her nighttime fantasies, lest she be tempted to corrupt Alys’s purity._

_The procession started. Isobel stepped forward at the proper pace, eyes fixed ahead, pretending she couldn’t feel the heat of Alys’s body, inches to her left._

~~~

Aziraphale read the next book that night, and tactfully didn’t call attention to the fact that he left it sitting in the open, on the table in the back room. Crowley never read it when anyone was watching, but Aziraphale did note that it shifted a few inches to the left a day later.

For his own part, he had to admit that the rather…intimate…descriptions of the two young lady main characters reminded him of the questions the first reading circle meeting had stirred up.

“Crowley,” he asked one evening, after several days of unsuccessful attempts to brush away his concerns, “what sort of…body types…do you prefer?”

Crowley gave him an utterly perplexed look. “Aziraphale, you’ve known me for 6000 years. You know I change up my corporation whenever I want to. I’ve never…picked just one type.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, “I didn’t mean—I mean—well, I meant in others. What sort of body type do you find…aesthetically pleasing?”

Crowley squinted at him. “D’you mean in humans?” He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t really care about their bodies. Sure, some of them are…gnnhh…nice to look at, I guess, but it’s more about the mind, right? The thoughts and desires and stuff. The…essence, y’know. Like Leo—mind always going on six different levels at once, thinking up solutions when the other humans didn’t even know there were problems yet.”

That made sense, naturally. Human bodies were certainly interesting sometimes, but in the end barely more than a distraction when you were a being who could perceive their soul. “Yes, of course, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “Quite right.”

Crowley was still wearing a slight grimace. “What about you? Any _body types_ you prefer?”

The only body type Aziraphale preferred was whatever type of body Crowley happened to be wearing, but he could hardly say that. “Oh, no—it’s as you said. Human bodies aren’t nearly as fascinating as their…ah…essences.”

“Right,” said Crowley, slowly. “Uhh…I think I’ll go to bed now. Bit tired.” And he did, so quickly that Aziraphale felt rather bereft, until he remembered that he could simply walk up the stairs and join him.

It was perhaps an hour later, when Crowley was evidently deeply asleep, that Aziraphale worked through the implications of their conversation, to a rather horrid sinking of his stomach.

Crowley’s attraction to…other beings…was based on what he saw in their essences, their souls. And angel and demon essences weren’t quite the same things as human souls, but certainly the same principles applied. And Crowley had seen Aziraphale’s essence, had _mingled_ with his essence.

And then had rid himself of it at the first opportunity.

And had avoided even accidental touching of Aziraphale ever since.

Was Crowley…repulsed…by Aziraphale’s essence?

Crowley’s essence had been intriguing, beautiful, rich, deep, captivating—just as—well, just like the corporeal version of Crowley, in Aziraphale’s view. Aziraphale had been looking forward to…more _thorough_ essence exploration, at some point.

Aziraphale tried to halt the plummeting of his stomach, without much success. He had Crowley’s friendship, after all. It was no matter—it _should_ be no matter—that perhaps Crowley didn’t want more than friendship. They had each other’s company, and mutual loyalty, and…and a form of love, surely, even if it wasn’t the form Aziraphale would most desire. Even if Crowley _were_ repulsed by Aziraphale’s essence (he pressed through the knifelike feeling that this thought produced in his gut), Crowley certainly still seemed willing to stay by his side. Determined to stay by his side, in fact.

Was that why Crowley had abruptly become so ill-tempered? Was he forcing himself to stay near Aziraphale even though he was now disgusted by him?

Aziraphale supposed he should be grateful, in that case.

Gratitude was not, in fact, one of the emotions he was currently experiencing.

But it was _fine_ ; it had to be fine, he told himself. Clearly Crowley _did_ still want his friendship—Crowley wasn’t one to voluntarily spend time around someone whose company he didn’t enjoy, after all. And he was spending plenty of time with Aziraphale—more time, actually, than he had been before their essence-mingling experiment. He scarcely left the bookshop at all without Aziraphale in tow. And their conversations and debates had continued just as they always had.

So, they would continue. They simply wouldn’t mingle essences. Or…touch. And it would be fine. The same friendship they’d had for millennia, but openly acknowledged now. It was more than Aziraphale had ever dared hope for, prior to this past August.

He wiped his eyes and resolutely returned to his book.

He put his plan into place starting the next morning. It was a cold sort of relief, he found. He no longer had to watch Crowley shy away every time he approached him, now that he was the one making sure an appropriate distance was maintained. Which was an improvement, surely. He would get used to it. The sooner the better, really.

He kept his hands folded together in front of his waistcoat, kept three feet of empty air between himself and Crowley, and kept ignoring the small, caustic voice that observed that there was no difference between this situation and the anxiety-driven distance he’d always maintained back when he was afraid of being noticed by Heaven.

He thought that the outing with the reading circle would serve as a bit of a distraction from the situation—and it did, in a way—

“Bollocks!” Crowley swore, stopping short, three feet away from the convent’s wooden door. (Parveen raised an unimpressed eyebrow; Eileen shushed him authoritatively.) “It’s consecrated.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. He should have noticed that himself. He _would_ have, if he hadn’t been preoccupied with maintaining space from Crowley while surrounded by the small crowd of reading circle members. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

He hadn’t thought that would be a problem. The “experiential activity” Parveen had chosen for the group was to tour Saint-Listerina-of-Plaquevitisgate, which was something like London’s sixth-oldest church (a claim that was disputed by at least two other churches and one tavern). Aziraphale had assumed that any consecration done when the structure was built would have faded between the 13th century and now, or would at least be confined to the original church altar area.

But he’d failed to take into account the fact that Saint Listerina’s was still a working convent, and some irritatingly pious soul had apparently taken it upon themselves to not only refresh the church’s consecration but also apply it throughout the entire building.

“Could probably manage it,” Crowley was muttering, putting first one foot and then the other onto the consecrated surface, like a cat about to leap onto a surface that would immediately collapse underneath it.

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale said firmly. “I’d never be able to concentrate on the tour with you hopping around, and you _know_ how long it took for your feet to recover after the last time.”

Crowley groused, but eventually had to concede the point. Aziraphale suggested that he “take the Bentley for a rotation” while he waited, which made Crowley’s face do something that resembled trying to swallow a lemon while applying eye shadow, which was rather a satisfactory result, really.

The church, once Aziraphale and the ladies were inside, was very charming, if one overlooked the section of wall covered up in scaffolding, and the noises of workers and machinery. These old buildings (well, old by human standards) were always in need of some sort of repair, after all. The guided tour of the church was quite fascinating, although the guide didn’t seem to appreciate Aziraphale’s helpful corrections of a few minor historical inaccuracies in his presentation.

“Come tell me about this statue, love,” Parveen requested, interrupting an invigorating discussion of medical careers in the 15th century. She seized Aziraphale’s elbow firmly and propelled him to an alcove with a bust of—

“Oh, Birgitta,” he said happily. “I met her once. Do you know, her order was required to give up all personal possessions, but they were allowed to keep as many books as they wanted. She and I had a lovely conversation.”

“You don’t say,” said Parveen drily.

“She was a staunch proponent of scholarship, you know,” Aziraphale went on. “I imagine you would have liked her as well, in fact.”

Parveen opened her mouth, paused, and frowned. “You’re probably right,” she admitted, only a little grudgingly.

They trailed along behind the group as the guide drew them onward. Parveen showed distressingly little interest in the guide’s information, especially considering that this activity had been her choice. On the other hand, she was quite willing to speak with Aziraphale about her frustrations with her attempts at starting her tutoring organization.

“So you need grant funding, but to get a grant you have to show that you have capacity, and to have capacity you need premises. And how am I supposed to get premises without the grant funding?” She ran a hand through her hair—purple today—and sighed. “Thing is,” she said, more quietly, “I know Eileen would repurpose her property for premises in a heartbeat. She doesn’t think I know that, so don’t you _dare_ tell her about it, but Cindy let it slip last week. But it doesn’t matter, because the property’s all tied up in planning permission. It’s infuriating. I know I _can_ do it—I’ve got the knowledge and the training—and there’s a real need for it, but all this bureaucracy—well, it’s probably not something _you_ have to worry about, love. You can just”—she waved a hand with a grimace—“make things happen. I don’t suppose you have to spend your time shouting at the higher-ups about how you know a way to help people, all whilst nobody will listen.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale tactfully, “I’m actually rather familiar with that experience, my dear.”

After Parveen had merged back into the guided group, Aziraphale surreptitiously snapped his fingers under the guise of inspecting another alcove statue. No matter, really.

At length, the tour concluded, and Aziraphale and the ladies were left to their own devices in the nave of the church (which, unfortunately, was where the scaffolding was set up and repair work was loudly underway).

It would be terribly rude to leave the group so early. But Aziraphale couldn’t keep himself from glancing to his left, toward the door where Crowley was waiting outside, no doubt increasingly impatiently.

“For God’s sake, go check on your boyfriend, mate,” Lydia said. “You don’t have to wait on us; we’re just mucking about at this point.”

“Oh—ah—thank you,” Aziraphale replied. “But you must understand, it’s not accurate to call him my—my boyfriend.” He felt his shoulders sagging as he said it.

“Well, partner, spouse, whatever,” said Lydia. “I dunno why you want to keep denying that you’re together.”

“But, my dear,” Aziraphale said, rather wretchedly, “we’re simply _not_ together in that way.”

Five sets of thoroughly disbelieving eyes were now fastened on him.

“Bollocks,” said Lydia.

“My _dear_ ,” Aziraphale reproved her. “Do try to watch your language. We are in a sacred space, after all.” Admittedly, he’d heard far worse things said in sacred spaces over the years, but he couldn’t stop himself from being a good influence.

Lydia rolled her eyes and opened her mouth for what would no doubt have been a considerably more profane rejoinder, but—

“Look out!” Parveen shouted, her head swiveling toward the scaffolding behind them.

Something crashed, with a horrendously deafening noise.

Workers were shouting; Lydia was cursing much more viciously than she had a moment ago—

Tools and machinery and pieces of scaffolding were clattering to the ground—

One man was actually swinging from a rope in midair where a platform had previously been supporting him.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and the swinging man found that the rope he was clutching slid him safely and gracefully to the ground. The remaining unstable parts of the structure all landed loudly but securely, in locations where they would harm no-one.

For a few seconds after the crashing subsided, everyone—Aziraphale and the reading circle ladies, the workers, a few nuns who’d rushed in—stood silently gaping.

It was the construction foreperson who broke the silence, issuing a few shaky orders, checking that nobody was hurt (they weren’t, as Aziraphale knew quite well, but nobody asked him).

Parveen took in a breath. “We should probably—”

A door crashed open. “What the Hell happened?”

All six of them (and at least one nun) swiveled left to see Crowley framed in the doorway, his eyes so wide they were nearly visible around the edges of his glasses. He was already starting to hop from foot to foot.

“For goodness’ sake, Crowley, you mustn’t—”

“Come _on_ ,” said Parveen, bodily herding them all out through the door Crowley had opened. They emerged onto a tree-lined gravel path, blinking in the mid-October afternoon, taking deep breaths. Cindy took out her headband with enough force that her white hair stood on end. Aziraphale kept a sharp eye on Crowley’s feet—without appearing to, of course—for any signs of limping.

“Did you do that?” Lydia demanded of Crowley, fiercely.

“Huh?” said Crowley, drawing back. “I couldn’t even go inside. I’m still not even sure what happened. Besides, why would I—nnggg—tear up a church, when—gnnhhh”—he waved a hand.

“You’re a demon, aren’t you?” Lydia pointed out. “Seems properly demonic, damaging churches.”

“Now, don’t be absurd, my dear,” said Aziraphale as Crowley spluttered. “It’s not as though Crowley goes around destroying churches. Why, it’s been decades since the last time.”

Five pairs of eyes were riveted on them again.

“The last time?” demanded several voices.

“Not exactly helping my case, angel,” Crowley muttered.

“Oh, but it’s such a lovely story,” Aziraphale said, feeling a fond smile begin to lift his lips.

“Go on, then,” said Lydia, not moving.

“No—no no no no,” Crowley groaned. “You can’t just go around telling humans about—about that.”

“I don’t see why not,” Aziraphale replied. “It reflects quite well on you, my dear.”

“Nnrrrr—I just don’t want _you_ to embarrass yourself,” Crowley insisted.

“I don’t have a problem with that,” said Parveen.

“Nor I,” Eileen added.

“Sounds terrific, actually,” said Lydia, still firmly not moving toward the carpark.

“I’m sure it’s a very sweet story,” said Vanessa, encouragingly.

Cindy reset her headband.

“Mrgk,” said Crowley.

“Well,” said Aziraphale, with relish, “it all started when I was acting as a spy during the second World War—”

“You weren’t a _spy_ , angel,” said Crowley. “You were _meddling_ , and—“

“Oh, do hush, Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “Just because I wasn’t officially affiliated with British Intelligence, that doesn’t mean I wasn’t a spy.”

“You weren’t even _unofficially_ affiliated with British Intelligence,” Crowley grumbled. “Your only contact was an _actual_ spy. For the other side.”

“Anyway,” Aziraphale continued, turning back toward the ladies, and proceeded, although the story was made considerably longer by Crowley’s interruptions.

“I wasn’t hopping; I was just—”

“You certainly were hopping, my dear. But”—Aziraphale directed himself toward their audience again—“that didn’t stop him from looking very dashing as he interrupted the foul scheming of the Nazi gang.”

This time, whatever Crowley was about to interject was interrupted by Eileen’s mobile telephone, which played a cheerful bebop ditty that was out of place in the convent garden. She frowned at it and moved away to answer, waving vaguely that the story could continue without her.

Aziraphale pressed on, finally reaching the climactic bombing—

“…and that was when I realized,” he concluded, “that I’d protected Crowley and myself, but I’d completely forgotten to protect the books. Can you imagine?”

“No, actually,” said Lydia.

“I can understand why,” said Vanessa, her warm eyes crinkling as she looked from Aziraphale to Crowley, who was blushing to the tips of his ears.

“But all was well,” said Aziraphale, who might have been flushing a bit himself by then, “because Crowley had expended his own miracle, and protected the books himself. He handed me the valise, and that was when—”

“Oh my God,” Eileen’s voice interrupted. She’d completed her call, but was still staring at her mobile telephone in shock.

“What is it?” Cindy asked, one hand traveling toward her headband in anticipation.

“It’s my property,” Eileen started.

“Is it alright?” asked Vanessa and Parveen together.

“It’s—yeah, it’s—it’s out of planning permission.” Eileen gave her head a shake. “I mean—I can start the remodel.”

“Oh my God,” said Lydia.

Vanessa hurried to give Eileen a hug, Cindy and Lydia just behind her.

Parveen, on the other hand, was looking straight at Aziraphale. He gave her his best angelic smile. She rolled her eyes and joined her friends.

“What did you do?” asked Crowley, watching the ladies. Aziraphale couldn’t resist watching them as well; the waves of love emanating from them were simply delightful.

“Nothing dramatic,” Aziraphale replied. “Just…shall we say…cut through some ‘red tape.’”

“Hng,” said Crowley, and shrugged. “Can’t really complain about that. Irritating stuff, red tape.”

“Didn’t you invent red tape, dear?”

“Pff,” Crowley neither confirmed nor denied.

Over in the ladies’ group, Eileen set her shoulders, turned to Parveen, and explained that she wanted Parveen to use the property as her tutoring premises. Parveen did an admirable job of pretending to be shocked. Aziraphale smiled. Crowley mumbled something about “angelic influences,” then:

“Are you ready to go home, angel?”

It was on the way home that Aziraphale’s mood, bolstered by the care and friendship flowing between the humans, began to deflate a bit. Crowley had been right, he thought ( _very_ privately), that it had been foolish to tell the story of their church rescue from 1941, though not for the reasons Crowley had given.

No, it hadn’t been foolish because of embarrassment, but it _had_ been exceptionally foolish to start his mind on the path of rescues in general, and that incident in particular. Aziraphale had been very lucky, in fact, that Eileen’s telephone call had ended when it did. Her exclamation had interrupted him just as he’d reached the part of the story where—

Well, where he’d realized he was in love with Crowley, of course. He’d grown accustomed to that knowledge since then, as it turned out—so much so that remembering that moment, now, was nearly as striking as it had been at the time.

And here he was, this afternoon, having been very nearly in need of rescue in a church yet again, and of course Crowley had gotten there as quickly as he could. Just when Aziraphale had begun adjusting, a bit, to the continued necessity to put space between himself and Crowley—and now he’d sent his mind down _that_ path.

Here he was, still just as much in love as he’d been in 1941, and still, evidently, just as far from being able to do anything about it.

He stood, straightened his waistcoat, and walked to his bookshop door, three feet away from Crowley’s right arm.


	5. Runaway Horses, Runaway Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel, a demon, and horses--what could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-level content warning: Funding difficulties for autism-related services are mentioned, which may be a frustrating topic for some of you!

**Chapter 5: Runaway Horses, Runaway Hearts**

_Jimmy’s heart was still racing as their horses slowed to a walk._

_“I—I don’t know what spooked Bramble like that,” he said, patting Bramble’s sweaty neck with a hand that was still shaking. “Nothing spooks him, most of the time.” He turned to his rescuer, riding beside him, oddly silent. “I think you saved my life.”_

_The cowboy, who’d been so coolly competent while galloping alongside Bramble just moments ago, looked away awkwardly and gave a fumbling tip of the hat. “It’s, uh, all in a day’s work, mister,” she said._

_She?_

_Yes, she._

_Jimmy’s rescuer was a woman, and why was Jimmy’s heart pounding even harder now than when he’d been fighting to keep his seat on his panicking horse?_

_“What’s your name?” he asked, forgetting any sort of proper manners._

_“Sam, usually,” said the cowgirl with a shrug. “You’re almost back to town, now.”_

_“Oh,” said Jimmy, looking blankly at the rough wooden buildings ahead. “I…that is, I…” But the number of questions teeming into his mind defeated him; he couldn’t think where to start._

_“You, uh, sit a horse pretty good, for a city boy,” said Sam, and turned her own horse and galloped away before Jimmy had a chance to say anything at all._

* * *

The cover of the next book featured two young people astride horses, holding each other’s hands and gazing into each other’s eyes before a vividly glowing sunset. (It was, admittedly, perhaps a bit _too_ vivid to be realistic.) Aziraphale read it immediately, hoping it would help him move on from his thoughts of Crowley swinging to his rescue in the midst of collapsing convents.

It did, but not in a remotely helpful way. Instead of scenarios of Crowley rescuing him from scaffolding or crumbling buildings, his mind now constructed elaborate plots involving Crowley making daring horseback rescues. This was rather stunningly unrealistic, considering that every interaction Crowley had ever had with a horse had ended with either Crowley or the horse needing to _be_ rescued, but Aziraphale’s mind obstinately ignored this lack of realism.

Meanwhile, Crowley had somehow become the contact person for the ladies’ book club (reading circle). It was only a few days before he received a message on his mobile telephone, explaining that the activity for _Runaway Horses, Runaway Hearts_ would involve—

“Horses.”

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale. “Well, you certainly don’t have to come, dear boy.”

Crowley snorted. “You’re not riding off into the wilderness by yourself, angel.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s a guided trail, hardly wilderness. And I won’t be by myself; I’ll be with our five friends.”

Crowley snorted even more derisively. “That didn’t do much good last time.”

“The scaffolding incident was hardly their fault,” Aziraphale said. “And besides, you’ve never worried about me _riding off into the wilderness by myself_ when you were sending me to perform temptations for you in Edinburgh or what have you.”

“That was”—Crowley waved his hands widely enough that Aziraphale had to step back—“that was before—ngk. Anyway, I’m coming.”

“But Crowley, you hate horses.”

“I don’t hate horses; horses hate me.”

“That’s not actually better, dear.”

As it turned out, more than five humans ended up accompanying them on the guided horse ride. Cindy’s son Drew came along—he was a dashing young man with a strong family resemblance to his aunt Lydia, and reminded Aziraphale of Crowley, just a bit, if Crowley had used a younger-looking corporation with dark hair. There was that time, back in the seventeenth century, when Crowley had spent a few years as a pirate…

Aziraphale gave his head a tiny shake.

Also joining the group was Lydia’s granddaughter Katy, a very young girl with medium brown skin and tightly coiled black hair, who was already a regular student at the riding stables the group was utilizing. Aziraphale recalled Lydia mentioning that Katy was in need of a support assistant at school, but in the context of equestrian activities, she appeared entirely cool and collected, with an expertise that he was fairly certain was unusual in seven-year-old humans.

For instance, she was clearly far more comfortable with horses than Crowley was, although admittedly that was not a high bar. The dear boy had, of course, gone straight for the largest, most coal-black horse available. He was now perched awkwardly astride the beast, holding the reins with white knuckles while its skin twitched furiously, as if Crowley were a particularly irritating fly it hoped to ward off. So far it had been unsuccessful, but given historical precedent, Aziraphale’s metaphorical money was, as the expression went, on the horse.

He tried to ignore the way the horse appeared to be escalating its tactics as the group progressed along the path (which was broad and level and did not resemble wilderness at all). They had been quite lucky with the weather; the late-October sky was a strikingly clear blue. (Crowley’s horse’s tail was flicking vigorously.) The trees were showing off their Autumnal best; the blue of the sky contrasted brilliantly with their glowing reds and oranges and yellows overhead. (The horse’s tail swished hard enough to ruffle Crowley’s hair.)

Aziraphale found himself riding beside Lydia, who was keeping one eye on Vanessa (who was next to Crowley but, unlike him, was having no trouble at all with her horse) and the other on Katy, who was riding at the front of the group next to the leader, a solidly-built young person named Sonja.

“Your granddaughter is remarkably poised with horses, my dear,” Aziraphale commented to Lydia. (Crowley’s horse was taking odd little sidesteps, as if trying to jiggle Crowley off into the trees.)

“Yep,” Lydia said, with unconcealed pride. “It’s one of her favorite things—well, animals in general, but horses and snakes are her top favorites right now. She’d be here every day if we could manage it. Which we can’t, but between her parents, Vanessa and me, and my ex, we get her out here a fairly good bit.”

“That sounds marvelous,” Aziraphale beamed. (Crowley’s horse tossed its head, snorting fiercely.)

“That’s one of the things we miss about her classroom assistant,” said Lydia, a frown dimming the enjoyment of the day. Aziraphale could feel the weight of her concern. “She helped Katy figure out how to, you know, incorporate her favorite things into her schoolwork. Makes sense, you’d think—if a kid has to look up a topic and write about it, and the kid likes horses or snakes or whatever, let the kid write about horses or snakes or whatever.”

“Yes, you certainly would think,” Aziraphale agreed. (Crowley’s horse veered left so that Crowley’s knee collided with a tree.) “And is she not allowed to incorporate her interests, now that the assistant is gone?”

“Ehhh,” Lydia waved a hand, “it’s not that she’s not _allowed_. It’s that she’s seven, and when you’re seven and your teacher says to do a thing, you don’t always think of how you can make that thing more relevant to what you like. That’s where the assistant was helpful—giving her little prompts to help her think through things like that, instead of, y’know, getting upset or freezing.” She sighed. “She’s muddling through. But it’s tougher. And it shouldn’t be, you know?”

“Oh, I quite agree, my dear,” Aziraphale assured her. (Crowley’s horse veered right, nearly running Crowley into Vanessa.) “And you said the loss of the assistant was due to budget cuts?”

“Yes, the bloody—” Lydia launched into a stream of profanity related to several administrators, a number of local politicians, and at least two political parties. (Crowley’s horse veered left again, running Crowley into something thorny alongside the path. Aziraphale used that, as well as Lydia’s continued litany, as cover for a surreptitious snap of his fingers directed toward learning support funding that would affect Katy’s primary school.)

Lydia had to rein in her rant when their group emerged from the trail into an open field, where they were to learn how to take their horses through different paces—trotting and cantering and so forth. Sonja and Katy demonstrated a trot, and Sonja began calling the group members up one by one to give it a go. Eileen was first; she looked impressively professional as her horse followed instructions with aplomb.

Crowley’s horse, though, looked unlikely to follow any sort of lead from its rider. It was stomping and prancing as they waited, tossing its head furiously, giving little jumps as if practicing for bucking. Crowley was hissing as he worked to keep his seat, and shouldn’t someone be _doing_ something—

And then, as Lydia was called up to attempt a trot, Crowley’s horse, evidently having exhausted all its available patience, bolted out across the field, Crowley barely clinging on with one hand.

And Aziraphale’s horse took off after him.

Much later, in the privacy of his own mind, Aziraphale admitted—well, considered the possibility—that he might have had something to do with his own horse’s reaction. He did, after all, have thousands of years of experience with horses, for all that he didn’t especially enjoy them.

Fortunately, both Sonja and Katy were ahead of him. They saw Crowley and horse careening towards them and angled to intercept—Katy riding directly in front of them so that the horse had to swerve, straight toward Sonja, who galloped alongside so that she could seize the horse’s reins.

This by no means quieted the poor beast, which was still plainly very unhappy that the demon persisted in remaining on its back. Sonja managed to slow it down, but it continued to prance uncomfortably, finally rearing upward in a full-fledged buck—and it was this, at last, which unseated Crowley. He fell backward, landing in a pile of forest debris in an ungainly heap of black-clad limbs, just as Aziraphale’s horse caught up to the excitement.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped. “Crowley, dear boy, are you alright?”

“Angel!” Crowley demanded at the same moment. “Are you alright?”

Crowley’s sunglasses were on the ground several feet away, and his uncovered eyes were wide and anxious. His jacket was askew and covered in fragments of bark and grass; his scarf…thing…was twisted halfway around his collar.

“Good gracious, Crowley!” Aziraphale said, abandoning his own horse and crouching next to Crowley. “That was terribly alarming!” He brushed off Crowley’s shoulders, straightened his collar. “You simply must be more careful, my dear.” He tried to adjust the scarf…thing…properly. “I do hope nothing’s happened to the horse.” Katy and Sonja appeared to have convinced the horse to come to a stop, finally, a good distance away through the trees.

“Nothing—nothing’s happened to the _horse_ ,” Crowley sputtered. “The horse happened to me!”

Aziraphale ignored this, standing and extending a hand down to Crowley, lifting him to his feet—

And realized, as they stood nearly chest to chest, that he’d broken all his resolutions to avoid touching Crowley.

“Oh dear,” he murmured, telling himself he must back away—but before he could convince his very unwilling mind of this, Crowley’s hand tightened around his and drew him closer instead.

“Angel,” Crowley said weakly; they were gazing into each other’s eyes, and if there had been any music, it would have been swelling dramatically—

“You dropped these,” interrupted the voice of a seven-year-old human.

Angel and demon both froze and turned slowly to see Katy, holding out Crowley’s sunglasses.

“Ah…thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, out of sheer force of habit.

Crowley said nothing other than a drawn-out hiss as he released Aziraphale’s hand in order to take the sunglasses back.

“Why do you have snake eyes?” Katy asked, staring up at Crowley’s face.

If she had been an adult human, Aziraphale hated to think what Crowley’s response might have been. As it was, Crowley glowered at Katy for several seconds and then let out a grudging sigh.

“B’cause I’m a snake sometimes,” he said, putting the sunglasses back on.

Katy continued to regard him intently. “What kind of snake?” she asked after a while.

“Uhhhh,” said Crowley. “Big. Black. And red.” He gestured vaguely at his front. “And scary.”

Katy continued to survey him. “That’s a red-bellied black snake,” she said presently. “That means you’re from Australia.”

“Good to know,” said Crowley.

He didn’t have to say more, because Sonja returned at that point, leading both her horse and Crowley’s—both of whom stopped in their tracks about ten meters away from Crowley and refused to come closer. At the same time, the ladies and Drew rode into the trees from the practice field, expressions ranging from shocked (Cindy) to concerned (Vanessa) to exasperated (Parveen).

“Your boyfriend needs ridiculous amounts of rescuing,” Lydia said to Aziraphale.

“He’s—” Aziraphale started, but was overridden by—

“Rrrrk— _I’m_ not the one who needs rescuing!” Crowley snapped. “He’s the one who has to be pulled out of churches and French prisons and—and—” He waved dramatically, his indignation robbing him of his voice.

“Unless it involves a horse,” observed Eileen. Her own very natural-looking seat on her horse earned her a fresh glare from Crowley.

“’S not my fault horses hate me,” he muttered.

“Of course not, dear,” said Aziraphale, moving to pat Crowley’s hand, thinking better of it, and ending up flapping his hand in midair as if petting an invisible pony.

“Uh,” said Sonja, who had been supremely comfortable and competent when instructing the group on riding techniques, but looked a bit wrong-footed now that she was standing on the ground with her group arguing about rescues and French prisons, “so, are you going to get back on, or…”

“No,” said several voices.

Crowley grimaced. Well, more than he already was grimacing. “I’ll walk.”

“I’ll walk with you, my dear,” Aziraphale said quickly. He half-expected Crowley to argue, but Crowley merely glanced at him through his sunglasses and nodded curtly.

They trailed along behind the mounted group, which wasn’t moving any faster than an ordinary human walking speed (Aziraphale quietly miracled the path clear of any…equine waste materials). Crowley walked with his hands in his pockets. (Strictly speaking, only his fingers fit into his pockets, but Aziraphale knew that was the idea he was trying to convey). Aziraphale thought of walking hand in hand, and then made himself stop thinking of that. At least Crowley appeared to be slightly more comfortable with…well, not contact, but proximity—they were only a foot or two apart rather than a solid three feet.

Katy rode next to them now, the fascination of a horse-hating sometimes-snake apparently winning out over the importance of her role as group leader. She volunteered a few horse facts, and asked Crowley questions about snakes (although it quickly became clear that she knew more about them than either he or Aziraphale did). Aziraphale worried a bit that Crowley might become annoyed, but instead he was quietly attentive. After a while, Aziraphale rather expected to hear Nanny Ashtoreth’s Scottish-accented voice emerging.

Katy kept them company all the way back to the stables, where Lydia retrieved her, and the group parted ways (and Crowley happily parted company with any and all horses). It was much later, back in the flat over the bookshop, with Crowley slumbering away in the bed, that Aziraphale let himself think over the day’s excitement. It hadn’t, after all, been a truly terrifying experience. It had been natural to be alarmed in the moment, of course. But Crowley could have miracled himself a safe landing if he had been in any actual danger of injury from the horse. They had certainly had far more frightening incidents over the years.

No, it was the latter part of the experience that had Aziraphale’s attention engaged, and perhaps his heartrate as well. He’d broken all his new personal rules regarding touching Crowley, true. But then…Crowley had drawn him closer. That wasn’t the act of someone who was repulsed by physical contact with him, was it? Surely it couldn’t be. Crowley had looked—well, he’d looked nearly as desperate for contact as Aziraphale felt.

Could Aziraphale have imagined it? Was this simply wishful thinking?

Possibly, but then…Crowley’s hand in his, pulling him closer—that had, in fact, objectively happened.

Aziraphale reminded himself that he didn’t want to begin hoping again—letting himself do so only to have his hopes dashed again would be dreadfully painful.

But he never really had been good at governing his heart, had he? Not when it came to Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There MAY be a bit of a delay on the next chapter since I'm juggling this story and Playing With Fire at the same time. Hopefully not, though! And if there is, it would only be a delay of a week at the most.


	6. Tools of the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing was—well, the thing was that the ladies were right, in a way—rescuing was a big part of his and Crowley’s…relationship. The ladies were simply wrong about which direction it went. On that point, it was Crowley who had been right (Aziraphale made sure to think this very quietly): Crowley was the one did the rescuing. It was convenient, really—Aziraphale very much enjoyed being rescued, and Crowley loved being the dashing hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for alcohol consumption (I've been forgetting to add those!)

**Chapter 6: Tools of the Heart**

_Hanna could still feel the imprint of Jiro’s powerful arms surrounding her, sheltering her from the collapsing wall. His eyes, Hanna saw in the instant before he turned away to survey the shattered stone now surrounding them, were huge and dark with worry, a startling contrast to his usual scoffing impatience._

_“What are you doing here?” Hanna asked, before he could speak._

_“What am **I** doing here?” he echoed incredulously. “What are **you** doing here?”_

_She pressed her lips together. “None of your business.”_

_“None of my—you’re on my demolition site at one in the morning! It’s definitely my business!”_

_“I’ll be gone soon.” If she could just reach her phone. “The best thing for you to do would be to leave and forget you saw me here.”_

_He blinked at her. “Don’t be stupid.” He shifted a chunk of the wall into a more stable position, the plain white tank top giving her a very clear view of his musculature as he lifted the solid rock without visible strain._

_She shook her head fiercely to banish all memory of Jiro’s arms, muscular or otherwise, and turned in the direction her phone had flown._

_And then realized how badly her leg was hurt._

_“You can’t walk on that,” Jiro said bluntly._

_Oh, hell. She would have to let him carry her, wouldn’t she?_

~~~

* * *

Aziraphale did a good deal of thinking over the next few days and nights—especially the nights, watching Crowley sleep in his bedroom, the gentle lamplight bringing out gold highlights in his lustrous hair—

In any event, yes, a good deal of thinking.

For 6000 years, he’d lived on faint brushes of elbows, conversations in which no true feelings could ever be said aloud, gifts that could never be acknowledged as such. Memories like a miracle in the Globe Theatre could keep him provided for years. Decades, if necessary.

Now, he’d had three handclasps within barely two months—a surfeit, by their standards—but instead of feeling replete, he was starving for more.

Aziraphale wasn’t one to tolerate “starving,” really.

So assuming, of course, that Crowley did have…feelings of a romantic nature…toward Aziraphale—which might not be true, of course, but…

…At any rate, operating on that assumption, and if Crowley was not, in fact, repulsed by Aziraphale, then…then what on Earth was keeping them apart?

Could Crowley be afraid that Aziraphale didn’t reciprocate his feelings? (Again, if such feelings actually existed on Crowley’s part.)

To be perfectly honest, Aziraphale couldn’t imagine how Crowley could be unaware of Aziraphale’s feelings at this point. Besides the fact that Aziraphale had spent millennia orbiting around Crowley in spite of every barrier that forbade him to do so, there were the past two months, in which Aziraphale had done everything he could to draw Crowley closer.

Was there some other anxiety? A lingering fear of being caught out by Heaven or Hell, perhaps?

Perhaps that was it. Aziraphale himself still had to chase away the thoughts that occasionally popped up, out of very long habit, telling him that their association wasn’t safe. He might have expected Crowley to move faster than him, once those barriers were gone, but after all, Crowley had lived through the same 6000 years that Aziraphale had of training himself to maintain distance. And Hell’s methods of punishment were…well, decidedly harsh, from a physical standpoint. Perhaps Crowley _was_ more anxious than Aziraphale.

In that case, maybe it was simply a matter of helping him overcome the anxiety in some way. After all, they had nearly overcome it—perhaps—in the trees after the horse-related disaster.

That was what Aziraphale’s mind kept circling.

Not horses—Aziraphale had no desire at all to orbit around horses, metaphorically or otherwise. Nor trees, though he’d prefer dealing with trees rather than horses, depending on the context—

Where was he? Oh yes. What he kept circling was…

Well, rescues.

The thing was—well, the thing was that the ladies were right, in a way—rescuing _was_ a big part of his and Crowley’s…relationship. The ladies were simply wrong about which direction it went. On that point, it was Crowley who had been right (Aziraphale made sure to think this very quietly): Crowley _was_ the one did the rescuing. It was convenient, really—Aziraphale very much enjoyed being rescued, and Crowley loved being the dashing hero.

Which led him back to the circling that his mind was currently performing:

Would a good, old-fashioned rescue help Crowley overcome whatever anxiety was…holding him back?

It needn’t be anything excessive, Aziraphale thought. He gazed at the cover of _Tools of the Heart_ speculatively, and thought about their upcoming reading circle activity. A construction site, for instance, ought to have plenty of chances for mild peril, that could lead to opportunities for a spot of rescuing.

“So what’s-her-name is basically using the book club as free labor for her remodeling project?” Crowley said, when the next reading circle activity was described to him.

“Her name is Eileen, dear, and I wouldn’t put it that way,” Aziraphale replied. “She’s providing them with an experiential activity.”

Crowley snorted. “An _experiential activity_ that happens to coincide with the demolition phase of her project.”

“I wouldn’t have expected you to be so judgmental about this, Crowley.”

“Who’s being judgmental? I’m a demon. I’m impressed.”

Eileen had, indeed, chosen to bring the group to her inherited property to engage in what could be called productive destruction. The “destruction” part was presumably the reason that Crowley was more enthusiastic about this activity than any of the previous ones—not that he admitted to enthusiasm, of course, but he had donned his old worker’s jacket, black with orange reflective stripes, for the occasion.

He wasn’t the only one experiencing enthusiasm, although the ladies expressed theirs much more openly. Parveen, with a yellow hard hat crushing today’s orange spiked hair, eyed the aging walls and fixtures predatorily. Lydia prowled while cradling a crowbar; Cindy eagerly tied and re-tied the kerchief she was using today instead of a headband. (It was no more successful at containing her hair.) Vanessa hefted a sledgehammer with an almost alarming gleam in her normally twinkling eyes.

Cindy’s son Drew had come along as well, as had Parveen’s husband—a shockingly ordinary-looking fellow called Sanjay; he had short black hair liberally sprinkled with white, and watched Parveen wield her sledgehammer with unabashed admiration. Aziraphale lifted his own sledgehammer experimentally and tossed it lightly from one hand to the other—it had been a while since he’d handled that sort of tool. He turned and said as much to Crowley.

“Huh?” said Crowley, who looked oddly dazed. “Oh—yeah, errright. Excellent…tool.” He shook himself a bit and headed off, presumably in search of something to destroy. He’d chosen a crowbar—its sinuous curve suited him, Aziraphale thought, and forgot himself for a bit, gazing after Crowley, before remembering his plan to look for spots that could…engineer a rescue situation.

Unfortunately, the building wasn’t cooperating. Instead, to Aziraphale’s disappointment, it was very solidly built, and not at all prone to unexpected collapsing.

The problem was that if he used a miracle to…create such a situation…Crowley would know he’d done it. The most Aziraphale could do would be to use a few subtle miracles in the name of helping loosen things up for the planned demolition, and hope one of those might lead to a rescue scenario.

In fact, now that he thought of it, seven humans and two supernatural entities were not likely to make any sort of timely headway on the demolition or reconstruction of this very-solidly-constructed building, without the judicious application of a few miracles.

A sigh a few feet to his right distracted him before he could make any decisions as to where any such miracles should be applied.

“This is going to take forever,” Eileen said glumly. She was holding a tape measure, and had been measuring walls, making various markings and muttering to herself, before apparently coming to the same realization that Aziraphale just had. “I’d hoped it would be ready in time for Parveen to have students before the spring semester,” she went on. “But at this rate, we won’t even be ready by _next_ school year.”

“It’s certainly a substantial project, my dear,” he said, trying for a balance between accuracy and encouragement. Based on the face Eileen made, though, he was afraid that he might not have succeeded.

“I don’t mind for me,” she said. “I have to do something with my time. It’s Parveen—it’s really important to her, and you can see how she’s about to jump out of her skin at not being able to do anything about it. And don’t you dare tell her I said that.”

“Of course not,” he reassured her, wondering if it was normal for humans to be so averse to communication.

“Plus Katie would be able to participate—she actually _wants_ an after-school program, and we don’t have anything to offer her—and Drew—he’s got the degree and the training, and he’s _amazing_ with kids. Parveen would hire him in a heartbeat, if there was anything to hire him _for_.” She aggressively measured a doorway. “And I’m the hold-up. And yes, I know it’s not actually me,” she added, before Aziraphale could interject, “but still. Even now that we’ve got a building, we still can’t move because there’s no funding to get it into the state we need. We’d need a whole construction crew, and who can afford that?”

“I do believe Parveen was speaking of grant funding a few weeks ago, wasn’t she?” Aziraphale suggested tentatively.

“Mm-hmm,” said Eileen, in a tone that indicated nothing good. “And you know what basically every grant mechanism has? A stipulation that the funding can’t be used for construction costs.”

“I see,” Aziraphale frowned. “Surely there must be _some_ grants available for construction.”

“A few,” Eileen said grudgingly. “But they’re unpredictable, and usually by the time you’ve found out about them, they’re due in two days. Or last week. Here, hold this.” She handed him the end of the tape measure while she measured part of a hallway. “I don’t know why I’m trying to explain funding mechanisms to an angel. It’s not as though _you_ have to worry about regulations.”

Aziraphale automatically looked for Crowley, to share an eye-rolling glance, but he was in the next room, energetically crowbarring a bit of weathered wainscotting. “You—ah—might be surprised, my dear,” Aziraphale said to Eileen instead.

She paused in her measuring to give him a glance with raised eyebrows. “Fine, then. Surprise me.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth—

And dropped the tape measure as he rushed past Eileen and through the doorway.

He was still several feet away when the first cracks formed in the plaster above Crowley. Crowley was focused on his crowbar—which was stuck—and didn’t see the wall as it started to disintegrate above him—

Time elongated as Aziraphale pounded his way across the room, but was it enough? Nearly—no—he wasn’t as good with time as Crowley, he somehow had time to think, as he realized he wouldn’t make it, and he lifted his hand to snap, to create some sort of safety for Crowley, even if he couldn’t physically protect—

But Parveen was there before he could do it. Her hard hat was gone and her orange hair pointed in all directions, one sturdy arm around Crowley and the other holding up the wall behind her.

Aziraphale skidded to a stop, chunks of plaster crashing everywhere except where Crowley and Parveen stood. Some seconds later, Eileen caught up to him, followed by Lydia and Vanessa from the far side of the room and Cindy from another doorway.

“I hope you wanted that part of the wall gone, Eileen, love,” said Parveen, releasing Crowley and brushing white plaster dust out of her hair. She was holding a brick in her other hand, and Aziraphale spent a moment wondering where she’d been working before…this occurrence. He half-expected the final portion of the wall to collapse, now that she’d stopped supporting it, but it remained solid. Crowley straightened up cautiously. He appeared undamaged, aside from his own thorough coating of dust, but was giving Parveen a very wary look.

“That,” said Eileen to Aziraphale, after a few moments spent getting her voice back, “was _not_ what I meant by ‘surprise me.’”

Aziraphale drew himself up. “I had nothing to do with that, my dear.”

Her mouth twisted skeptically. “You were already moving before anything fell.”

Aziraphale huffed. “That certainly doesn’t mean I…contributed to it falling.”

Parveen, tossing the brick from hand to hand, frowned between the two of them. “Well, it was obviously going to fall, wasn’t it?” she asked, looking confused.

The other ladies turned to look at her. Behind them, Drew and Sanjay clattered down a stairwell and came to a halt, taking in the scene.

“Um…no,” said Vanessa, slowly. “That wasn’t actually obvious.”

“ _He_ knew it,” Parveen said, pointing her brick at Aziraphale.

“Ah, yes, my dear,” said Aziraphale, “but as we’ve established, I’m an angel. I do tend to know about dangerous occurrences before they happen. It comes with the job, I’m afraid.”

“But that’s just normal,” Parveen said, laughing (a little forcedly). “Y’know, that funny feeling just before something dangerous happens. Like the scaffolding in the convent last month.”

The other four ladies’ eyebrows had risen even higher. Cindy took her kerchief off.

“That…may not be as normal as you think it is,” said Lydia.

“And I rather hate to mention it,” Aziraphale interposed, as tactfully as possible, “but in fact, you shouldn’t have been able to hold up that section of wall by yourself.”

Parveen turned a smoldering glare on him. “That wasn’t you?” she snapped.

“I’m afraid not, my dear.”

“Or you?” she directed at Crowley.

“Nah,” he replied. “Could have done, but it was already taken care of. I would’ve figured it was him”—he tilted his head to indicate Aziraphale—"but it didn’t—rrrgh—have the right feel.”

Parveen looked around at the semicircle of humans and entities facing her. “Oh, you’ve _got_ to be joking,” she snapped.

“Didn’t you say, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, “that the Summoning which resulted in our meeting all of these lovely individuals…would have required a bit of, well, _occult_ power to be successful? In addition to the desire to Summon…ah…someone?”

“Mmnngg,” Crowley nodded. He’d taken one or two subtle steps away from Parveen. “That’s, that’s usually how it works, yeah.” She threw him a dirty look.

“We’re not saying _I’m_ the occult power,” she said, flatly.

Cindy ran her hands through her hair.

Lydia rubbed the back of her neck. “It…uh…might explain a few things, actually.”

“This is very exciting,” said Vanessa, eyes glowing.

Parveen looked to Eileen, who said nothing to agree with the others, but also wouldn’t quite meet her gaze.

Parveen spread her arms (Crowley dodged the brick). “You’re all barking. I’m going to go talk to Sanjay.”

Sanjay, in fact, had nearly finished picking his way across the debris by then, and took her hand (the one not holding the brick) as soon as she turned to him. They went off together down another hallway, leaving a dense silence behind.

After some moments, Eileen eyed the remnants of the wall and repositioned her hard hat over her neatly-ponytailed black-and-silver hair. “Someone come help me measure this space,” she said firmly.

No more disasters occurred during the rest of their time, engineered or otherwise. Aziraphale, for his part, had rather lost the desire to influence buildings with miracles. The building itself was obstinately durable in the face of human-style demolition attempts, so that by the time they called a halt for the day, they had made a substantial mess, but very little measurable progress (even including the destruction of the wall that had nearly landed on Crowley).

“It’s a good start,” said Vanessa, encouragingly. She looked more composed than anyone else at this point, bright flannel sleeves still neatly cuffed above plump elbows. (Lydia couldn’t seem to keep her gaze away from her resulting bare forearms.)

“We’ll just have to keep plugging away,” said Cindy, who was looking unusually pink—she had evidently found whatever supply of bricks Parveen had previously been working with.

Eileen sourly measured a doorway.

“Look,” said Parveen in Aziraphale and Crowley’s direction, as the group moved into the entryway, downing tools and gathering other belongings, “I’m not saying I believe in any of this…this…” She waved, presumably indicating the occult, rather than the front door. But if you’ve got any”—she wrinkled her nose—“resources, or whatever, I could take a look. I guess.”

“Yes, of course, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “That’s most sensible of you. As a matter of fact, we have a…well, an acquaintance…who’s something of an expert in the area. Ah—Crowley, don’t you have Ms. Device’s number…ah…recorded on your mobile telephone?”

“Already on it, angel,” Crowley replied, doing something to the screen of his device that made Parveen’s device buzz a few seconds later.

She looked at it grudgingly. “Book girl?” she read, arching an eyebrow.

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale admonished, “you can’t just call her ‘book girl.’ She has a name. That’s Ms. Anathema Device,” he added to Parveen, whose forehead creased.

“Spell that, love,” she instructed him. He rattled off the letters; she wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. “I’ve heard worse,” she shrugged, noting something on her telephone.

“She’s American,” Aziraphale cautioned, “and I suppose she might be considered a bit eccentric.”

Parveen’s eyebrows lifted nearly to her orange hair. She let her gaze stray to Crowley, his black-and-orange jacket still dusted with white dust; to Eileen, still measuring walls; to Cindy, retying her kerchief over her brick-dusted white hair; and then back to Aziraphale, who tugged at his waistcoat. “Eccentric? Oh dear. However will I manage.”

And with that, they left the building. Aziraphale tried not to resent it for failing to deliver on what should have been perfectly good chances for a gallant demonic rescue. It was, after all, only doing its job, as a firmly-built building should.

“Aziraphale,” Vanessa called as he and Crowley reached the Bentley, “the next book and activity are Cindy’s choice, but we were thinking—would you like to choose the one after that?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale said. “Well…why, yes. I’d be delighted. Thank you, my dear.”

He felt his mood lighten, a bit, as he considered the prospects of this development. (In between his necessary objections to Crowley’s driving choices, of course.) Being in charge of the reading choice and the experiential activity gave him a certain advantage in terms of increasing the chances of rescue opportunities. He would have to give this some careful thought.

Speaking of giving things thought…

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, once they were settled in on the couch and armchair, respectively, “I didn’t apply any miracles to the building today. But there was no natural reason for that wall to have fallen apart as it did.”

“Mmlllwmblll,” said Crowley, staring intently at the cut patterns on the glass holding his scotch.

“I knew it!” Aziraphale said. “Crowley, what in the world were you thinking?”

“Nnnrrk,” Crowley shrugged. “It was taking forever, y’know. Thought I’d help it along.”

“Oh, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, his heart throbbing a bit, “that was very ni—”

“ _Not_ nice,” Crowley interrupted, irritably. “I was…impatient, that’s all. Wanted to get some proper destruction in.”

“Of course, dear.”

“Besides, you’re one to talk about throwing miracles around, with all your ‘cutting through red tape’ talk last time.”

“That’s hardly the same thing, Crowley. There wasn’t a safety issue involved in simply eliminating some…bureaucratic policies.”

“There is now that you’ve done it and turned that group of amateurs loose on that building. Frankly, angel, I’m surprised you didn’t miracle them up a construction crew. You’ve got to see it’s going to take them ages to make any headway.”

“Well, yes,” said Aziraphale, wiggling a bit. “That’s why, on Monday, Ms. Parveen will find an advertisement for applications for a grant that funds educational services and specifically covers construction costs.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “You created an entire grant for them?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Aziraphale, “of course I didn’t create an entire grant for them. I simply reset the funding cycle of an existing grant.”

“Ah,” said Crowley.

“And I might have put in a bit of a nudge to increase the limit on construction-related costs.”

“Of course you did.”

“Well, I can’t help it that these…funding streams…are so foolishly restrictive. It’s a favor to everyone, really, to cut out some of those needless rules.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And it’s not as though I’ve taken out all the work. Parveen will still have to apply for the grant. I’m sure it will be quite a competitive process,” he said, nodding with satisfaction. “She’ll need to put forth her best effort.”

“Whatever you say, angel,” said Crowley, sipping his scotch.

“Oh, hush.”

Some time later, they regretfully concluded that they’d spent enough time with the scotch, and—also regretfully—stood to make their way to the stairs.

“Oooh,” said Aziraphale. “It’s not usually this”—he waggled a hand to illustrate.

“Wiggly,” said Crowley, squinting at the shelves. “’S more wiggly th’n usual.”

He listed sideways, so Aziraphale reached for his elbow to steady him. That seemed sensible. Couldn’t have him falling over, after all.

This resulted in their swaying in tandem—which was interesting, but it seemed that there was a goal of some type that they were failing to achieve.

“M’dear,” he said, as they swayed left, “’M afraid we may need to sober up a bit.”

“Blargle,” said Crowley, as they swayed right.

“Well, _I’m_ going to,” Aziraphale replied. “Jus’ a little.” He focused, in an unfocused sort of way, and some of the alcohol content made its way out of his corporation. Enough for the bookshelves to stop their inconsiderate oscillation.

Also enough for him to take in that he was still holding Crowley’s elbow, with Crowley’s right side pressed against his left.

Ah.

He should let go.

On the other hand, if he let go, Crowley would fall over.

“Should we…go up…my dear?” he tried to compromise, waving toward the staircase.

“Stairs won’t stay still,” Crowley complained.

“Perhaps you should sober up, just a touch?” Aziraphale suggested. He was feeling increasingly guilty. Sober Crowley likely wouldn’t permit this much contact. Sadly, that meant that semi-sober Aziraphale couldn’t either.

“Mmrrk,” said Crowley—and a few seconds later, grimaced and straightened up. Well, “straightened up” by his standards, which was still very…un-straight. Aziraphale gently released his elbow, and winced at the sudden coolness where his left side was no longer touching Crowley.

“Better?” he asked.

“Not really,” Crowley grumbled.

He successfully maneuvered the stairs, though, and put himself to bed. Aziraphale stayed awake, of course, reading in his armchair.

Well, _not_ reading, or not much. His mind kept wandering, to the warmth of Crowley leaning against him, the feeling of his own hand wrapped around Crowley’s elbow.

And from there back to the day they’d had, to a collapsing wall and a strong arm wrapped around…well. In his mind, he built the scene the way it should have gone, with himself in Crowley’s spot, and Crowley in place of Parveen. Crowley rushed in just in time to shield Aziraphale from the collapsing wall, and their resulting embrace went on much longer than was strictly necessary.

Eventually, Aziraphale sighed, and tried to turn his mind to other things. Anything else, really. It _hadn’t_ happened that way, and dwelling on it would only cause him to feel more and more bereft.

On the other hand…it wasn’t as though that had been his last chance. There were more reading circle activities still to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience! Likely 2-3 weeks before the next chapter, but we will get there!


End file.
